


Queer as Folk

by PaolaAdara



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: HP: EWE, M/M, Promiscuity, Recreational Drug Use, Top!Harry, bottom!Draco, hpdm - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-01-20 06:17:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 28,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1499804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaolaAdara/pseuds/PaolaAdara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Potter, Draco thinks, is a destructive son of a bitch. <i>Loosely based on the show with the same title.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The One Where There's Sex Everywhere

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: _Queer as Folk_ is based on characters and situations that belong to J.K. Rowling; publishers that include, but may not be limited to, Bloomsbury Publishing, Scholastic Publishing, and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros. The title is borrowed from the show of the same name, the North American version of which was developed by Ron Cowen and Daniel Lipman from the original English series, of the same title, created by Russel T. Davies. No money is being made, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
> 
> Some details are borrowed, either consciously or unconsciously, from the North American version of Queer as Folk, and the character of Harry Potter, for the purpose of this story, is loosely based on the character of Brian Kinney.
> 
> Considerations: Similarities to other stories/events/passages are purely coincidental unless otherwise cited. References to real company/ies, historical figure/s, and other personality/ies, dead or alive, are purely fictional. Beliefs and points of view found in the story do not necessarily reflect those of the author’s.
> 
> Timeline: _Queer as Folk_ is canon-compliant, save for the epilogue; EWE.
> 
> Warning: This contains SLASH, promiscuity, recreational drug use, offensive language, other adult situations, and clichés. You have been warned and are duly expected to turn back if such things offend you.

Draco doesn’t think it all started when Harry Potter broke up with childhood sweetheart Ginny Weasley, although others may tend to disagree. After all, isn’t a broken heart what causes people to stray from the straight and narrow path of absolute, black-and-white morality?

There are many relationships, touted by the papers, of wizards and witches that are a whirlwind of fairytale romance and hard-earned solidity, and theirs was a relationship that showed the same signs: wholesome, honest, loving — a war hero sweeping childhood friend off her feet.

Everyone adored the couple: their photos littered the front pages, their names topped every guest list, and gossip about their engagement fed the rumour mill like magic fed the Wizarding World. Speculations about their wedding, along with their future _three_ children, were actually set in stone, if that were even possible. Everyone was happy and all a-tingle; church bells were virtually ringing; and everything was sugar-sweet, by the book, and comfortable.

Until one late September afternoon, four years after the war, when the Wizarding World was taken by storm by a photograph of everyone’s Golden Boy in a torrid liplock with a girl who could have been Ginny Weasley.

Except she wasn’t.

The uproar that followed was off the charts.

Draco doesn’t believe that Harry quite knows how to do things by half: there was the saving-the-world business, the paragon of heteronormative relationships, and then finally, the breaking of all rose-tinted glasses into tiny sharp slivers with the ruthlessness of a hardened Death Eater. Really, a simple break up wouldn’t do for the Golden Boy. And, as if that hadn’t been enough, he’d had to stop a mob of paparazzi and gossip columnists with a collected smile and words that Draco never thought could be said so sweetly:  _Ginny and I are still good friends_.

If Harry’s life were a cheesy novel, Draco couldn’t have written it any better.

A few days later, Harry vanished. For real. He was incommunicado, and his best friends and ex-girlfriend wouldn’t talk. Ginnywas said to have suffered from too broken a heart that she just didn’t want anything to do with Harry, and Granger and Weasley were said to be divided over what to do. As if. They’d stick to Harry even if they were magnets repelling each other.

The only thing that stopped the Wizarding World from going into panic was a note in Harry’s handwriting saying that no, he wasn’t kidnapped; no, he didn’t elope; and no, he wouldn’t appreciate being found until he was ready to be found.

When he returned two years later, he looked...different — there was no other word for it. He acted differently, talked differently...hell, even the air around him _moved_ differently. Not that Draco would know that last one of course, but that was what he read in the papers and the papers _don’t_ lie, do they?

It was a series of shop-soiled events after his comeback: never-ending pub crawling, notorious clubbing, and a different lady friend at the end of every night-out. It was as if someone kidnapped Harry Potter and replaced him with an imitation that _wasn’t_ quite an imitation. It was surreal.

The rumour mill was abuzz, the press was at an all-time high, and admirers were both turned off by the new Harry Potter and turned on by the _new_ Harry Potter. It was mad, and Draco had never been more disgusted with the simpering public. Of course, he’d never been more intrigued by the subject either, but he wasn’t about to let that be known.

After a while, the uproar began to run its course. But just when things had started to finally cool down, there came a tabloid flaunting another controversial photograph of Harry: He was being frisky with a fit, Asian model, which wouldn’t have been such a controversy if said model hadn’t been of the male variety.

Yes, Harry James Potter, role model for every would-be family man — at least, until his “sabbatical” — was photographed in a compromising situation with a _male_ model. When Draco says that Harry never does things by half, he means it, and now Harry’s getting the best of both worlds. Literally.

The press had a field day, and the male population was — and still is — practically thrumming with excitement at having the same chance as any other girl. The buzz had never been louder, the gossip never been more ridiculous, and the fascination never been greater. Harry Potter had irrefutably and irrevocably re-instated his celebrity status without being aware of it.

The Boy Who Lived indeed.

So, no, Draco doesn’t think it started with the break-up of the century because the root of all evil, he opines, is not money, nor a love story without a happy ending, but an innocent question of “What’s it like with a bloke, Malfoy?”

* * *

 

“Harry, you’re twenty-seven, not seventeen. Aren’t you past flings and psychoactive drugs yet?” Ginny asks with a forced patience borne of familiarity.

Harry favours her a sleepy smile, staggering for a bit before slinging an arm around her shoulders, and leaving a sloppy kiss on the side of her mouth. “Well, sweet cheeks, let’s just say I was too busy trying to keep my bits back then, and we all know I don’t mean that in a positive, life-affirming way.”

Harry nuzzles Ginny’s neck, pulling her just a little bit tighter against him. “Jesus, I’m horny,” he whispers, but despite the roaring music of the club, Draco hears it. Of course, that’s probably owing to the fact that Harry’s other arm is slung across _his_ shoulders and he got pulled in closer when Harry pressed tighter against Ginny.

“Potter, you’re always horny. And for fuck’s sake, stop molesting Ginny!” Draco tugs at Harry’s hair a little too harshly, and Harry laughs that inebriated, sleepy chuckle of his as he untangles his hair from Draco’s fingers.

Yes, the unthinkable did happen: Draco got the fucking guilt-trip of a lifetime, tried to stave off doing what would appease his conscience for four — _four_ — successful years, then lost the battle of wills, approached Ginny, and apologized for what Lucius did.

In those four years, along with monetary war reparations taken out of the Malfoy vaults, he’d had to accomplish a million fucking hours of community service to make up for his “crimes against humanity during the war” — even Harry had voiced that that indictment was a bit too much when he’d testified at Draco’s trial — and in one of those services, he’d worked with Ginny at an orphanage for war orphans. And things...well, things just happened and Ginny decked him a good one, much like what Granger did in their third year, said it was only fair to get back at him, smiled tentatively, and offered a hand in friendship like the typical Gryffindor that she was, with the one caveat that Draco be completely civil and friendly with her or he could go and fuck himself — after all, she didn’t need superficial apologies from people she worked with because, _honestly, Malfoy_ , people practically queued to be “friends” with war heroes and she had no use for mere acquaintances.

It went without saying that Draco had resented the stipulation because he’d had no plans of befriending Ginny, but in the end, he’d liked her assertive attitude and had been intrigued that maybe, with a personality such as hers, it wasn’t Harry who got out of the relationship — highly likely that it had been Ginny who’d broken up with Harry.

“If you can’t even walk on your own, how in bloody hell are you going to get it to stay the fuck up?”

Harry turns towards Draco, removes his arm around Ginny, and places his hands on both sides of Draco’s face before giving him a sound smack on the lips. “Love, do I look like I’ve ever had a problem in that area? And if, say, right now, you’re right, aren’t you here to _help_ me with it?” he says, tongue-in-cheek.

In the year of Harry’s sabbatical, Ginny and Draco had become friends in that they went out and hung out but never discussed anything that hit too close to home, both instinctively agreeing that they needn’t be typical friends. Besides, Draco never planned to apologize to Granger and the other Weasley, so it would be awkward to mix their entire social life. But Harry Potter, as usual, was a different matter altogether. He didn’t ask to be a part of Draco’s life — he just came and staked a claim and never left. The arrogant prat.

When Harry returned from wherever it was he’d been living, he’d promptly stormed Ginny’s apartment, raised questioning eyebrows at Draco’s presence — Harry, for the life of him, isn’t capable of arching just one eyebrow, _bless him_ — then just as quickly shrugged a casual “Hullo, Malfoy.”

Draco had been just as surprised to be meeting Harry without so much as a teeny, tiny warning. He’d expected an argument, an accusation of what he must be doing in Ginny’s apartment, and when he got none, he’d been even more surprised.

Ginny had reprimanded Harry for not saying anything about coming back home so he could’ve been properly welcomed — which told Draco that Harry had, at least, communicated with Ginny, and probably his two best friends, when he’d been away...not that he cared, of course — but Harry, in all his new insouciance, had brushed her scolding aside and told her to dress up because they were going dancing and that Draco was invited, too.

Dancing. Draco had barely held onto his laughter. Harry Potter didn’t dance. For fuck’s sake, he made a fool out of himself in fourth year!

“Muggle club, Ginny, but don’t wear that little black dress George got you and had Ron having apoplexy over. I don’t want to be spending my time trying to fight off perverts,” Harry had said before following Ginny to her room. They were being too friendly with each other, which dislodged Draco’s belief that Ginny was the one who had ended their relationship — it seemed as if the decision had been mutual and that they really were _good friends_ , the lingering intimacy present but was nothing more than a manifestation of harmless flirtation.

It was safe to say that Draco had gotten even more intrigued — because, really, some things from school never change, and that includes his unaccountable interest in Harry’s life, loathed as he is to admit it — and that made his decision to join them easier.

He’d been quite shocked that he took to Muggle establishments like fish takes to water, but he supposed it was because Muggles didn’t know what he’d done and who he was.

Draco rolls his eyes and makes to dislodge Harry’s grip, and Harry gives his throat a fleeting kiss and nip before pulling back, spreading his arms wide as though some god out to bestow the blessing of his presence. “Well, as lovely as you both have always been, I can’t take you home with me.”

Three years after that first time they went to a Muggle club, here they are: Ginny and Draco are very good friends and Draco gets kisses from the saviour of the Wizarding World as though they’ve never been enemies. Funny how things turned out.

“And just how are you planning to get home when you can barely stand on your own?” Ginny asks, arching a brow.

Just then, a leggy blonde winds an arm around Harry’s waist, and Harry’s sleep-gentled smirk turned into a shit-eating grin in a second. “This one is bringing me home.” And then Harry’s walking away with his trick for the night. “I’ll see you two for breakfast tomorrow,” he calls over his shoulder.

People are dancing and drinking and getting high all around them, and Ginny and Draco are watching Harry Potter leave the room like a spotlight were on him and he was their beacon. Shit.

“Three years later and I still wonder if, perhaps, that’s not Harry Potter,” Draco says when Harry’s finally out of sight. “A twink just went down on him in the backroom five minutes ago and he’s not even leaving with said twink!”

“You didn’t tell me you went down on him!”

Draco glares. “Fuck you, Weasley, you slut.”

Ginny laughs, sidestepping to avoid being trampled by a drunk customer. “Sometimes, I wonder, too. Whatever happened to naive, innocent Harry? Well...I guess Lorelei does that to you,” the last part is almost an afterthought. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

There it is again, that name: Lorelei. Draco has never gotten the story about that person, whose name came up after Harry’s sabbatical. Harry has never volunteered information, and he’s not about to ask Ginny about her either...not for a lack of interest, of course, but it’s part of the life Harry had before he’d struck a friendship with Draco, and somehow, it has always felt like taboo to talk about anything prior to their first clubbing together.

“What’s the rush? The night is young...and so is the clientele.”

Ginny rolls her eyes. “I’ve a practice game tomorrow, and you have a boyfriend to go home to.”

“He just portkeyed in from Merlin knows where; he’d be too jetlagged to do anything.” Yes, he doesn’t have any idea where his own boyfriend goes whenever he leaves on business because he always leaves. After the first ten times of asking, there’s really no point in it anymore. Keeping tabs isn’t really his strongest suit, and the fact that he knows that the black vest — which Harry calls a wife-beater, go figure — beneath Harry’s leather jacket is new is irrelevant, and so is the fact that he _can_ tell.

“That’s what you get for dating a Richard.”

“A Richard?”

Ginny swipes a cocktail from the bar, obviously amenable to staying despite her game the next day. She takes a sip while slowly undulating to beat of the music. God, despite Draco flying on the other side of the Quidditch pitch, he still thinks that Ginny Weasley is absolutely fit, and given his penchant for hating anything Weasley, that’s saying a lot.

“He’s a type. You know, the business tycoon type who flies the world and takes home the gorgeous babe but doesn’t really have time to _go out_ because he’d rather have intimate candlelight dinners and drink wine and eat baby artichokes and caviar.”

Draco takes Ginny by the hips, following her movements with deliberate gyrating motions. “And you’re saying that that’s bad? I happen to like expensive dinners and vintage wine and antipasto and caviar. Not especially all together in one sitting, but you understand.”

“It’s so hetero.”

Draco quirks an eyebrow. “ _You’re_ hetero.”

“ _You_ , on the other hand, are not. I’m not saying that it’s bad — and, really, those came from Harry when he was high as a kite the other week; I don’t think he really meant it, though. That stupid fuck, he dates girls after all...or, you know, fucks them — _anyway_ , I’m not saying it’s bad, but you need your night outs and your boyfriend has yet to come along in any of said night outs.”

“I don’t need him to come along. It’s what you and Harry are here for,” he sighs a little exasperatedly, just like the many times before every time Ginny went into her relationship-analysis mode. Besides, he _is_ happy with Richard, even though he gets tempted to have another on the side every time he goes out just so he doesn’t have to suffer through a raging erection with no promise of release until he gets home.

“Fine, let’s say that _Richard_ is a type, are you saying that I should date a different type?”

“Yes. Like a Draco. A Draco would understand your needs. And your vanity,” she cheekily grins at him before she tips her glass and finishes her drink. “But then you’d be too similar for either of you to have fun. There’d be too much yeses and before you know it, you’re Mary fucking Poppins — too _right_ and agreeable. Too much give and give and give to be thrilling. So maybe...a Harry.”

Draco half-chokes, half-laughs. “Excuse me?”

“I’m not saying Harry Potter, prat. Harry’s too...I don’t know, _something_. He lacks a certain kind of stability you seem to need.”

And Draco agrees. Who would’ve thought that Harry Potter would turn out to be an unstable bastard who should’ve been shunned by both sexes for his dalliance with _both sexes_ , but isn’t quite so because he’s fucking written down in history? Nobody aside from Ginny has ever been seriously linked with Harry, and not because there are no takers, but because, for some curious reason, the Gryffindor doesn’t want to take any offer. Two rounds each trick, a fuck for a twink tops. No further than that, and that’s only if they’re _lucky_.

“No, not a Harry, per se, but something like a Harry. A...semi-Harry type, if you will. You know, someone still sweet but not as...liberal — for lack of a better term.”

The eyebrow Draco arched earlier arches higher. “Sweet? Isn’t that the same as ‘too hetero’?” And yes, Draco agrees, too, that the Harry type is sweet because, as asinine as it may seem, Harry is still that sweet Gryffindor he was before he became the guy that _everyone_ wants to fuck and be fucked by.

Once, he and Ginny had gone to Harry’s loft to pick the bloke up for breakfast. They were a little too early and his companion for the night had yet to leave. He didn’t hear exactly how Harry made the twink leave, but he did hear the twink apologizing, as though it were his fault that Harry doesn’t do relationships...anymore. It was surreal, no other word for it. Who the hell apologises for being kicked out anyway? Apparently, everybody Harry fucks. Instead of cursing Harry six ways from Sunday for being a prat, they _apologise_. Un-fucking-believable.

Harry is sweet to a fault sometimes, and it isn’t even the manipulative kind of sweet. He just _is_ , without having to try. Ginny says it’s annoyingly charming, and Draco, now that he doesn’t hate Harry, won’t even deny that he thinks so, too.

“I meant sweet in a licentious sort of way,” Ginny once more rolls her eyes, and Draco swears they’d get stuck that way one of these days. “With a predilection for the night life. Can support his own and won’t cower under your sense of entitlement.”

Draco knows there’s an insult in there somewhere, but he lets it slide in favour of grinding his bourgeoning hard-on against Ginny, who promptly smacks him on the arm and calls him an arse.

He’s been half-hard almost the entire evening, what with the constant grinding against nearly everyone on the dance floor, which included Harry himself earlier on — anyone who knows how to appreciate the male form will get hard from being pressed against Harry while the Boy Who Lived gyrates on the dance floor, and Draco is no exception. Of course, the difference is that Harry will fuck everybody but Draco because it’s common knowledge that flirting with friends is okay but fucking friends is not.

“Okay, a semi-Harry then. But since semi-Harry has not yet knocked on my door, I’ll stick to my Richard, if it’s all the same to you. He _is_ good in bed, you know.”

Later that night, having turned himself on desperately enough to finally send him running home, Draco is reminded just how good Richard is, and by the end of his second orgasm, he’s too sated and lethargic to consider actively searching for a semi-Harry of his own. A Richard is good enough, thank you very much.

* * *

 

Draco pushes the fruits to the side of his plate to be consumed later, before spreading the butter on his pancakes and lightly drizzling it with syrup; he doesn’t like it too sweet, and too much sugar means additional weight to burn.

It’s fifteen past eight, Ginny has her practice nearly an hour from now, and Harry has yet to arrive. Late as usual.

“So, how was your night?” he asks Ginny, barely quelling his smirk. Ginny didn’t go home with anybody last night and is currently not dating anyone so he knows there hadn’t been a warm body to wake up next to.

“Oh fuck you and your Richard,” Ginny grouses, sipping her tea.

“Oh yes, there was fucking, and it was hot.” This time, he doesn’t try to hide his triumphant smirk. A _Richard_ is indeed better than no one at all. “It’s been how long since you last got laid? You’d dry up, you know.” He ducks when Ginny tries to cuff him.

“Shut up, Malfoy. For your information, it’s only been a week. Not every one of us needs too much sex to function.”

“So says the bitter woman. And I don’t need ‘too much sex’ to live — that’s your ex-boyfriend — I merely need a very thorough seeing to on a regular basis.”

Before Ginny can reply, a familiar _Hello, darling_ makes its way to them, and Draco looks up to see Harry talking to the waitress. He supposes Harry must be flirting, but with a kid on his hip who’s happily chattering away, Draco can’t really tell. What he can tell, however, is that Harry in dark denims, a green v-neck jumper, and sunglasses, makes for a pretty picture, and with his hair all tousled as usual, it looks almost obscene that he’s carrying a child while looking extremely well-shagged.

Draco shakes his head to derail his thoughts, which seem to have resided in the Praise Potter Camp. Yes, the man is beautiful, but Draco refuses to be part of his fan club. That, however, doesn’t mean he can’t give Harry extra points when he notices that the jumper is cashmere.

“Hugo! What are you doing with Harry?” Ginny exclaims when Harry sits across them.

Draco has heard of Hugo, Weasley and Granger’s sprog, but he’s never met the boy until now. He watches Harry smile and nod as Hugo wraps up whatever it is that he’s telling Harry. It’s something he never thought he’d see: Harry Potter comfortable with a kid. Not when he’s seen the same Harry Potter fly as high as a kite and trick like it’s a sport he’s out to win a trophy for.

“Aunt Ginny! Mommy and Daddy have a ‘mergecy and we went to Harry’s house and they said I can hang out with Harry today! And, and—”

“Slow down, Golden Boy,” Harry barely avoids being hit in the face with a flying limb, and the wince he sports tells Draco that he’s still suffering from a hangover. “Hermione says I haven’t spent time with my godson and so dumped Hugo on me instead of Molly.”

Draco raises an eyebrow at the nickname because if memory serves, Harry was none too pleased with the misnomer back in their school days. Ginny, however, doesn’t bat an eyelash so Draco lets it go.

“It’s _emergency_ , sweetheart,” Ginny corrects before sympathetically asking if Harry’s okay, knowing that Harry forewent a hangover potion because the poppers he insufflated last night would have reacted badly with the concoction.

Hangover potions, apparently, do evil when ingested while there are still Muggle psychoactive drugs in the system, something Draco gratefully learnt from Harry when he himself first took E. How Harry found out, he’d never know, and he still winces every time he thinks that Harry might have learnt about it the hard way.

When Harry assures her that it’s just a tiny headache, she turns to her nephew and smiles at the kid indulgently. “Have you had breakfast?”

“Not yet, but I’ve already ordered,” Harry answers.

“I was talking to Hugo.” Harry only grins, the incorrigible prat. “Do you want French toast, Hugo?” Ginny pointedly directs the question at the Weasley sprog.

“Harry already said I can get waffles, didn’t you, Harry?”

Harry nods, placing Hugo on the chair beside him. “By the way, Hugo, this is Draco. Draco, this is Hugo.”

Draco smiles at Hugo, but he falters when Hugo cants his head to look at him with such intense blue eyes, almost accusatory, before turning back to Harry.

“Harry, is he one of your bond — bolond... Wassat Mommy said? Blonde...one of your blonde bishes, too?”

Draco chokes on his pancake because ‘bishes’ is really just child-speak for ‘bitches,’ and judging by the spluttering beside him, it’s safe to say that Ginny’s tea has gone down the wrong pipe, too. Harry, on the other hand, is laughing his aching head off, and Draco wishes he would choke on his own saliva or crack open his own head.

“He has yellow hair,” Hugo offers by way of explanation, puzzled at the reactions he’s pulling.

“No, Golden Boy, Draco isn’t one of my‘blonde bitches.’ He’s just a bitch.” Harry grins cheekily at Draco, who surreptitiously flips him the bird. “And I didn’t say that word, okay?” He places a finger to his mouth, unconsciously drawing Draco’s attention towards the reddish lips. “And I won’t tell your mum you’d been a naughty boy.”

Hugo copies Harry’s actions. “Okay, Harry, it’s our secret,” he replies in a loud whisper, giggling and showing his crooked front teeth.

“Harry, stop being such a bad influence on him,” Ginny says after clearing her throat, still looking horrified. She massages her temples, seemingly trying to stop the onslaught of a headache. “And _what_ the hell, Harry?”

Harry shakes his head, as if that could stop him from chuckling. “Well...I wasn’t quite alone when they popped in this morning.”

“The blonde from last night?” Draco asks, getting over his embarrassment and his shock at Harry’s flippant exchange with Hugo. He’d thought Harry would be more sensitive and censorial towards his godson. He’s a Gryffindor after all.

Harry cringes; he’s probably thinking of the scene in his loft earlier. “Ron got in first, and just as B.B. offered a threesome, Hermione popped in with Hugo, and some things were...said.”

Draco opens his mouth to ask who or what a B.B. is before remembering Granger’s colourful term. And really, he should be amused by that scenario, but “Ron” and “threesome” in the same sentence just about makes him lose his breakfast. The last thing he needs is an image of Weasley in anything sex-related.

“Hugo, honey, I think you owe Draco an apology,” Ginny says, thanking the waitress for delivering Harry and Hugo’s food and glowering at said waitress when she idles a second longer, most probably waiting to be acknowledged by Harry.

The waitress leaves when Harry fails to notice her, and Draco barely suppresses the urge to laugh.

“I’m sorry, Draco,” Hugo dutifully says before eagerly tucking into his breakfast, pouring an obscene amount of syrup on his waffles.

Draco is about to say that it’s okay, but Ginny’s reprimand cuts him off. “That’s too much sugar, Hugo! It’s not good for you.”

Hugo frowns. “But Harry’s doing the same!”

True enough, Harry’s pouring a generous amount of peach syrup on his own waffles, almost making Draco’s tooth ache at the sight. He likes sweets, but Harry’s sweet tooth is legendary, and Draco sometimes believes Harry’s incessant clubbing and very active sex life are because that kind of energy has to come out some way or the Boy Who Lived would be bouncing off walls. Which would have been a sight Draco’d pay to see.

“Yes, he is, but Harry is also a bad role model,” Draco replies flatly, and he almost chokes again when Harry reaches across the table to grab at his nape, bringing him forward until Harry is able to land a messy smack on his mouth.

“You talk so sweet, B.B., you practically spout syrup.”

Draco scowls at Harry’s sardonic smile, wiping the sticky substance off his lips with a napkin before grousing at Harry’s horrid table manners.

“So, where are you going after this?” Ginny asks, waving at a fan who spots her. They’re at an outdoor café, and it’s surprising that no one has accosted Ginny yet, given the team she’s playing for and the many victories she’s heaped upon her team since she joined them.

“Golden Boy and I are going to my workplace.”

“For you to have a workplace, you’d have to have a job first, which you haven’t,” Draco points out, forking a fruit into his mouth.

“Of course I do. How do you think I afford those ridiculously expensive birthday gifts you ask for?” Nobody pulls off flippancy like Harry. It’s uncanny. Where the hell had he been in those two years he went missing?

“As if the Saviour of the Wizarding World needs to pay for anything.” Draco barely manages to quell the urge to say “duh.”

Draco sees Harry try to conceal a moue of irritation, but he dismisses it.

“You know, Harry, you can’t go on forever without a job. Look at Draco” — Draco glares at being made an example — “all that money in his trust fund and he still has to work. What about your Auror training?” Ginny nags, as she always does when it comes to Harry’s work — or lack thereof. She says it’s because she cares; Draco thinks it’s because she’s a woman.

“I _really_ love these peach waffles. How ‘bout you, Golden Boy?” Harry stands up and scoops Hugo out of his chair as soon as the kid puts his fork down to look at him and nod, and Draco wants to curse him for showing off his still quick reflexes. “But we’ll be late for _work_ so why don’t we buy you some yogurt on the way?”

Hugo giggles as he gets swung up in the air.

“And I’ll see you when I see you,” Harry throws over his shoulder, smiling indulgently at the waitress as he leaves.

Ginny sighs and Draco shrugs. “I told you, _mum_ , nagging sends him running faster than Skeeter chasing after the latest gossip.”

“I hate it when he acts like a kid! With his lifestyle, he’d be draining himself dry by the time he turns twenty-six, and it’s not a pretty situation. I’ve been there.”

“He’s twenty-seven.”

“Exactly.”

Draco hates it when Ginny spouts metaphors he doesn’t understand. It’s not that he’s stupid, because he’s fucking not, but Ginny’s just particularly hard to get sometimes, and not even in that bullshitting way of women.

Ginny does have a point, though. Harry was a responsible kid, so what happened to him? He’s always available to go out, always there to have fun with — except when he drops off the face of the earth without an explanation and without any willingness to even hint at anything — and Draco wonders how he keeps himself afloat when all he does is have a good time. Does Harry have a sugar mommy — or daddy, for that matter? Draco shudders at the thought.

“It only really means you’re too thin when you’re shaking at just this kind of chill,” Ginny segues from beside him.

“Compared to you, I’m malnourished.”

“Fuck off.”

“No, you fuck off. You have training in exactly ten minutes. But don’t go until you’ve paid. I paid last time, and Harry had gotten fucking eggs Benedict he didn’t even touch.”

“Aw, poor baby.” Ginny kisses his nose dramatically before standing up and leaving, Disapparating as soon as she exits the café property.

Draco looks down at the table, seeing the money Ginny left to be enough to pay only for what Hugo had. He’s been conned. Again. Tonight, they are so going to pay for his expensive drink choices

* * *

 

By the time Draco gets to _that new, sizzling discotheque_ , it’s nearly two in the morning, some well-favoured wizard is trying to snatch Ginny’s tonsils by the bar — which is a _good_ thing — and Harry’s...well, Harry’s nowhere in sight. Which isn’t a surprise because he and Ginny have probably been here for hours, enough time to drink, dance, ingest the latest recreational potion, and cast an imperturbable charm before fucking anyone silly.

Wizarding clubs are sometimes just a smudge better in that they’re clean and privacy is never an issue. On other aspects, Draco, though nobody would probably believe that he’s saying this, thinks that they’re a tad under the line demarcating “wild” from “okay.” The English Wizarding World, after all, is a little behind the times, and the dancing he mentioned a while ago was probably not enough to keep Harry on the dance floor before getting himself a twink or a trick or both.

Draco is angry because who the hell suggested a _tame_ fucking club? On a fucking Friday night, no less! Of course, he immediately guesses when he spies Weasley and Granger at one of the tables by the walls. Married couples shouldn’t be hanging out with _unmarried_ people in the same club and infect them with their connubial bliss, for Merlin’s sake! They’re fucking _child_ just had breakfast with him, for crying out loud, shouldn’t that get across the message that _they’re_ from a different world? It’s a fucking tenet! And Draco only really notices his anger when Ginny cuffs him on the back of his head, asking what the hell he snorted — or chugged, as the case may be in Wizarding...recreational drugs. Apparently, he’d dragged Ginny away from her new man and ranted.

“I’m not stoned. I just got here,” he replies defensively, belatedly realizing that the implication of those words is that No Harry equals Sobriety.

“Then why the hell are you queening out over something so small? Jesus, over a venue!” Ginny has a hand on her hip, and that can only mean that Draco has really been acting childishly.

“I don’t queen out. I don’t even know what that means.”

“Sure.”

Draco takes a lungful of air — again, another good thing about Wizarding establishments: either you inhale slightly dusty or clean air, but never oxygen stale with sweat. “Okay, look, I shouldn’t have pulled you away from your guy...seeing as how you actually _need_ to bring him home to get laid” — he gets smacked for his efforts — “but, fuck, Richard is a fucking cunt!” And to think they were fine just this afternoon.

Okay, so a fight with his boyfriend shouldn’t warrant queening out, whatever the fuck that means.

“What happened now?”

So...they fight a lot and Ginny has noticed, judging by the tone of her voice. Big deal. Couples fight. At least Draco and Richard have hot make-up sex after...or, well, _used to have_.

“Never mind. It’s nothing I can’t deal with. Go back to your man, and I’ll go give these people something to drool over. And tell Harry, if he surfaces anytime soon, that choosing a club based on the married Weasleys’ white-picket-fence concept of fun, is shitty. I don’t care if they’re your family.”

“What, you can’t be arsed to tell him yourself? You’re his _blonde bitch_ , not me,” Ginny shoots back, smirking. She turns around and walks back to her date, sashaying her hips.

Draco shakes his head, torn between feeling resentful of Ginny’s dismissal or proud of her cattiness.

He moves towards the dance floor, wending his way around swaying hips and flailing hands, thankful once again that Harry’s early clubbing hype took hold and wizards and witches learnt that _robes_ just didn’t do it on the dance floor.

The patrons aren’t too many but the music is loud and the lighting charms are psychedelic, and soon, Draco has been groped and propositioned and has turned down many a face.

Putting people down never fails to lift his spirits, and high from the adrenaline of dancing, he gamely turns around in the arms that are suddenly draped over his shoulders — only one person wears a silicone bracelet with an engraved LIFE on it. It should’ve been tacky, but it just fits.

“Ginny tells me someone’s been bent out of shape, and not necessarily over a couch.”

“Hello to you, too. Won any competitions lately? You know, who could orgasm the most number of times in the span of an hour?” Draco rests his hands on Harry’s hips, pulling him close and dancing even closer, the beat of the music pumping in his veins.

Harry’s face breaks into an amused grin that announces he’s on top of the world and that sticks and stones may break his bones but Draco’s words would never do anything more than tickle his funny side. He leans forward and kisses Draco. “You fuck like bunnies whenever he’s in the country, what the hell could you have been fighting about?”

“Ha, ha, Potter.”

“Seriously, do you even talk?”

“And what are you, the guru of all relationships? You’re supposed to make me feel better, you fucking arse, not pinpoint what was wrong with my relationship — you haven’t even met him! Not that there’s still a chance of _that_ happening” — he glares when Harry lets out an overly relieved _thank fuck_ — “And you chose a fucking shitty club you know.”

“So what does it say about you two that I haven’t met him, yet I’m hitting the nail right on the head?” Harry replies, ignoring the slight on his choice of establishment. “And fuck your guru shit. I’m not in a relationship — precisely why I _can_ tell that there isn’t actually a relationship. He’s like, what, the one night stand you just happened to repeatedly fuck.”

There goes that infamous Harry Potter logic again. Draco glares and begins to pull away, but Harry only tightens his hold, shifting his hands so he’s cradling Draco’s face. “Stop being a drama queen, Malfoy. If you’re not fucking happy with your _relationship_ , spellotape it or get the fuck out of it. Stop with the wounded puppy air. It’s pathetic.”

Draco only glares harder because Harry may be an arsehole, but he’s an honest arsehole. He sucks at fibbing and he sucks at comforting that he used to stumble through it until he exploded and said what was really on his mind. Now, Harry has learnt to skip the tiring process and goes straight to saying exactly what he thinks. Draco doesn’t know if that’s actually any better.

“You’re Draco Malfoy. You’re an annoying shit who knows better than to take shit from other people. You _deal_.”

Maybe that’s a compliment. Then again, Harry has a way of making people feel one-foot tall even when he isn’t actively trying to, so Draco decides to hold his tongue.

Draco watches as Harry produces something from his pocket and isn’t surprised to see a packet of familiar tablets. Harry has never liked the Wizarding counterpart, says it’s fucking queer to take out a _bottle_ and guzzle some potion, which is ironic because he might be bisexual, but he’s still queer...and Draco should have been really offended by that comment.

Harry shakes out two pills while Draco’s attention is stolen by a red tongue stuck between two rows of white teeth and peeking just so from kiss-swollen lips. Harry places the pills in his mouth — on _that_ red tongue that Draco can’t quite manage to look away from — quirks a tauntingly sexy grin, then leans towards Draco’s mouth, sticking his tongue in and depositing one of the tablets.

Before Draco can speak, Harry’s leaning in again, pressing their cheeks together. Draco inhales his salty-sweet scent, running his fingers over Harry’s hands that are cradling his jaw.

“You be good now and try to keep your answers negative to further propositions. Remember that you’re a kept man.”

What a jerk.

“Fuck you.”

Harry barks out a short laugh, drops a kiss on Draco’s neck, then puts a little distance between them. His eyes wander over to another patron, his attention locked and trick for the night spotted, but before he can move towards his new prey, Draco grabs his arm and spills, “He cheated on me.”

Harry’s eyes dart over his new interest quickly before returning to Draco. He tilts his head to the side, licks his lower lip, and gives Draco a lazy grin. “Oh...so you’re _not_ a kept man after all.” He gives Draco’s hair a playful tug. “The world is your oyster, B.B.! Go fuck someone else. Handle it like a man. Now you go enjoy that perfectly good medicine, yes? It’s just what the doc prescribed.”

If Draco weren’t already feeling the kick of E and Harry not already making his way towards his latest trick, he’d tear Harry a new arsehole for that nickname. And the easy dismissal of his problem.

* * *

 

It takes a week before Draco finally breaks up with Richard, and he’s up for some dancing and drinking and getting fucked up on whatever stash Harry might have tonight. Getting back on the market needs some kind of celebration after all, more so when he’s been cooped up at home the length of _that_ same week evaluating his options and coming up with only one real decision: get out before the ship completely sinks.

Fuck Richard and his high society shit. Draco might not have always been good and might not have always been on the right side, but monogamy is monogamy and Draco stuck with his principles throughout their relationship. Unfortunately for him, Richard broke their agreement. Unfortunately for Richard, Draco broke his fucking nose.

Tossing back his third tequila shot then sucking on a wedge of lime, Draco feels so much better, and fuck those who call this training fucking wheels — tequila is always better with salt and lemon than on its own, at least for him, and really, in his world, he’s all that matters. Beside him, Ginny’s pouring them another shot, using her other hand to deposit her lime wedge on the plate.

They’ve chosen a Muggle establishment for tonight, and the sweat-soaked air, dizzying strobe lights, vulgar snogging on virtually every surface, and manual refilling of their drinks seem more than fabulous in Draco’s quickly-becoming inebriated mind. This is what clubbing is all about: torrid, techno-loud, and — given that they’re currently in Soho’s trendiest club, _Resurrection_ — full of fit queers ripe for Draco’s picking. He does stick to wizard boyfriends, but anonymous blowjobs in the backroom are still blowjobs, and Draco’s found out that getting head from a wizard is no different from getting head from a Muggle.

“Good crowd tonight,” Ginny observes, handing Draco his shot then turning to survey the throng of horny men dancing the night away. Merlin bless Ginny, she’s such a sport, leaving her new boyfriend at home and once again immersing herself in the near exclusive gay nightlife Resurrection has to offer. Breaking up always gets Draco turned off by mixed crowds, and he’ll forever love Ginny for being the most open-minded, straight-as-an-arrow heterosexual he knows.

“That one. That one’s hot,” Ginny points with the hand holding her shot glass.

Draco turns and studies Ginny’s choice. Not bad. All bronze skin and muscles. “No, too brawny.”

Ginny raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. “How about that one?”

Nice hair. “No, too blonde.”

She snorts. “Oh yes, because heaven forbid the joining of two blonde bitches. That one?”

He can see warm, caramel eyes from where he’s standing. “Brown eyes are so common.”

“Too short, too tall, too dark, too fair,” Ginny continues, waving her hand towards men meeting her descriptions. “Honey, at the rate you’re going, you’re gonna end up fellating yourself tonight.”

“My, do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

 Ginny ignores him and takes another shot. “Here, have another one. Drown your sorrows and all that shit.”

“Shouldn’t you be discouraging me from drinking the sane out of myself? And where’s Harry by the way? He should be buying me drinks, that prick!”

By Draco’s ninth shot, disturbed only by a few turns on the dance floor and a Green Vesper offered by some good-looking Muggle he can’t remember the name of, he’s pretty much shot himself, and it’s so easy to hook his fingers in the belt loop of one particularly dark-haired man who’s only too willing to suck him off in the backroom.

Harry never makes an appearance at all.

* * *

 

If Draco’s persistent knocking doesn’t bring Harry to the door, then nothing ever would. He’d gone to Harry’s other apartment in the Wizarding side of the city, but Harry wasn’t there so he figured he’d try the Muggle loft. So here he is, dressed to kill because he is literally going to kill one Harry Potter. Maybe that’s why no one’s answering — they can feel the malicious intent vibrating outwards from him.

Either that or Harry’s out of town — or the country — but he’ll take his chances and rap on the door again.

Harry’s Muggle loft is at the border of Kensington & Chelsea, in a non-descript building of ironically questionable repute, but that doesn’t stop the loft from being one of the most brilliant homes Draco has ever seen, and given that the loft has nothing magical in it, that’s saying a lot.

The front doors are steel ballistic with big steel hand bars and slide open towards opposite ends, but the tarnished finish is what Draco likes most. It gives the feeling that the place is abandoned, very different from the elegance he grew up surrounded with, and the novelty is nice.

As he raises his fist to pound once more, the doors split open to reveal Harry, hair sticking up every which way, bleary-eyed, frowning, but wearing frayed jeans so there must be no trick or twink with him, otherwise he’d be wearing a sheet instead. That’s always a plus. The no trick and twink, Draco means.

Harry’s bracing the doors and using his arms to support his weight as he leans forward, all gruff and sleep-scratchy voice when he asks, “What time is it?”

“Seven.”

“In the morning?”

“No, at night. Of course in the morning! Is there no sunlight streaming through your windows?”

Harry isn’t impressed with his sarcasm. “What the _fuck_ are you pounding on my door for at seven in the fucking morning?”

Harry Potter is undoubtedly pissed, and since they’re friends, Draco is obligated to feel contrite, except he’s pissed off himself. He follows inside when Harry pushes himself off the door and shuffles towards the kitchen.

Draco’s been to Harry’s loft many times before, but it still amazes him how very Muggle it is that the basic _Wingardium Leviosa_ would probably make all the appliances go haywire. It’s very...contemporary — a minimalist design at its trendiest: glass and stainless steel and stone and precise cuts with the occasional soft touches of curtains and white sheepskin carpet, all spread out across the open floor plan of the expansive unit. And, no, there is no sunlight streaming through the windows because the curtains are pulled shut, and the only lighting in the room is coming from the LED switches lining the wall above the counter and sink.

“Merlin, is it dark in here or what!” Draco exclaims, hitting the light switch nearest him and turning on the pendant lamp above the kitchen island. He smirks when Harry curses at the bright light, especially since he’s parked on one of the barstools and slumped over said kitchen island nursing a bottle of water.

Turning on the spot, he surveys the rest of the place. The floor-to-ceiling windows are hidden by heavy organic cotton draperies, which, Draco knows, when pulled aside would reveal airy white curtains and further behind, clear glass. The last time he was here, the draperies were blood-red, but now it seems that Harry has changed them to midnight blue, probably to match the LED switches.

“The world better be fucking dying, Malfoy, for you to come running to me. And kill the bloody pendant! _Jesus_ , turn on the floor lamps in the corners if you want fucking lights. Shit!”

Draco doesn’t think he likes that “come running to me” part, and he feels like shouting, but he rallies quickly enough and keeps his voice level. “My, Potter, when they said you’ve got a skilled tongue I didn’t know they meant ‘colourful.’”

Harry cuts his eyes towards Draco and speaks in a gratingly pleasant timbre, more than a match for Draco’s flat tone, “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be _colourful_ except some idiot decided to storm my loft in a god-awful hour.” He ends with a smile before frowning again. He gets up and walks towards the bedroom, running his fingers through his hair and yawning. “If you’ve got nothing important to say, I’m sure you know the way out.”

“Well I have, so you better stop right there and look at me.”

Harry sighs, and Draco can almost see him grimacing. He pivots on the spot, hands in his back pockets, tilting his chin and briefly arching his brows in clear enquiry.

Draco makes an effort to ignore how well Harry carries _tousled_. “Why weren’t you there?”

“Being a little more specific can’t possibly hurt. At least not more than being yanked out of bed.”

“At Resurrection. Last night. I owled you and asked you to come.”

“I didn’t think I was obligated to come.” Harry rubs the back of his neck, yawning yet again and looking dead on his feet. “Is that all?” He rolls his eyes and makes to head back to his bedroom.

“Fuck you! You said we were friends, shouldn’t friends come when they’re invited? We were supposed to celebrate!”

“Celebrate what?” Harry asks, obviously exasperated. “Your breakup? Don’t be a fucking girl.”

“ _Excuse_ me?” Draco lets out, incredulous.

“He cheated on you, you packed up and left. Big deal. It wasn’t like he was giving you a hard time and chaining you in your sweet little love nest.” Harry rubs at his eyes. “It took you a week to break up with him when it could have taken one bloody phone call.” He shrugs, as if to ask what that makes of Draco, trying to hold onto his supposed manners when Richard all but fucked him over.

“We can’t all be arseholes like you.” Well, he was, too, when he was younger, and he still is sometimes, but at least he’s upfront about it. Harry... Harry takes everyone by surprise, and not in a life-affirming way.

Harry favours Draco a grin that could’ve been angelic if it weren’t for the devil horns Draco can practically see sticking out of Harry’s head. “What can I say, sweetheart, we are a gifted few.”

“I’m actually still amazed at how the great Harry Potter has become such a fucking bastard. At least I had the decency to do it in his face; you couldn’t even be bothered to write a fucking note back!”

Harry cocks his head and looks longingly towards the bed visible from the open doors then back to Draco. He heaves a heavy sigh. “Come here.”

When Draco only arches an eyebrow, Harry pads over to him instead, his bare feet barely making a sound on the smooth hardwood floor. He pulls Draco’s scarf and discards it, followed by Draco’s coat, and then he’s pulling Draco’s jumper over his head and unbuckling his belt.

“What are you doing?”

“Sleep off this righteous anger, B.B. It’ll make you feel better. It’ll make me feel better. It’ll make the whole world feel better,” Harry replies, still in that pleasant tone that always manages to come across as supercilious.

Draco doesn’t want to _sleep it off_ and he sure as hell doesn’t want to make the whole world feel better. What he does want, however, is to AK the fuck out of Harry for dismissing him so easily. But really, it’s kind of hard to stay mad when said boy has basically undressed him and is now slinging an arm around his shoulders and pulling him towards the bedroom.

With resentful resignation, Draco takes it as a peace offering. Currently, Harry seems too agreeable with biting his head off despite his calm tone, and the best way to placate Harry, Draco has found out, is to read into the little things and see them in the most positive light possible and proceed accordingly.

The fucking shit. Since when do Gryffindors do vague?

Draco shrugs off Harry’s arm a little too harshly but follows nonetheless when Harry doesn’t react.

Staying true to the loft’s unpartitioned characteristic, Harry’s bedroom isn’t walled off; instead, it’s elevated and divided from the rest of the place by a series of lightly frosted glass sliding doors, overlapping and gliding through external steel runners and steel poles. Harry once said when Draco asked that the only safety feature of the glass doors are the lamination so the glass won’t go flying everywhere when shattered. Of course, Draco thinks it’s stupid of Harry to forego any kind of magic in the loft, but Harry won’t be persuaded to have it otherwise.

All panels can be slid open to opposite sides, but even when they couldn’t, the fact that they’re nearly transparent had given Draco cause to tease Harry about his inner exhibitionist, to which Harry had easily replied that it must’ve been his inner Slytherin, so, _hey, takes one to know one, yeah?_

“I still think you’re an exhibitionist and that your bedroom is a fuck-fest solarium. Did you disinfect?” Draco has always been of the opinion that the whole loft is a testament to Harry’s sexual cachet.

The room is dark, the tall windows having been hidden by the same dark curtains as the rest of the loft. The bedroom is elevated, but the space for the bed and the side tables is sunken as low as the original level, making the bed look like an oversized futon from outside the bedroom. Whoever designed the place must have been a genius.

Harry merely grunts, flopping onto the mattress and retrieving the covers from the floor with an outstretched hand.

Although fabulously placed, the bed is the one thing Draco hates because he didn’t think of the colour scheme first: pillows in a mix of anthracite, stone, steel blue, and ivory — the ivory is only really one pillow to offset the blends, and one which Harry is currently draped over. The sheets and the duvet are a much darker grey, almost charcoal, and the light from the kitchen pendants filtering into the bedroom makes Harry’s skin glow where the duvet hasn’t fully covered him. Shit, the man is fucking beautiful, and the only problem is that Harry knows it and knows, too, how to use it to his advantage.

Draco strips down to his boxers and slips under the covers, preferring Harry without his jeans because the material feels scratchy against his skin when sleeping, and he mentions it so, only to be quelled when Harry informs him that either he keeps his denims on or be nude under the covers with Draco.

Draco turns to his side, his back facing Harry, and he isn’t surprised when Harry curls around him; Golden Boy seems to appreciate a warm body next to him. “Malfoy?”

Draco hums in acknowledgement.

“Richard is a son of a bitch and you deserve better,” Harry sleepily mumbles, lightly kissing Draco’s nape, and Draco recognizes it as an extension of his apology.

It takes a few silent heartbeats before Harry rolls to his side of the bed, and despite the whispers of traffic coming from outside, Draco clearly hears when Harry’s breathing evens out in sleep.

Draco shifts to lie on his back, staring at the ceiling and listening to the sounds of the city. For all of Harry’s new devil-may-care attitude, he sure seems a lot darker to Draco compared to when he was sharing Voldemort’s soul. Funny that.

* * *

 

“Hello, people who don’t live here,” Harry says as soon as he steps in his kitchen, dusting off the soot from the floo.

Draco and Ginny have been in Harry’s home for a while now and have managed to make a mess in his kitchen, which is a far cry from his stainless, minimalistic kitchen back in his Muggle loft. This kitchen reminds Draco of what kitchens should really look like: stone and wooden cupboards. He did grow up in a proper Wizarding home and though the Muggle loft will always amaze him, there’s something about a traditional living place that appeals to him.

Draco swings his gaze towards the archway separating the kitchen from the living room. Another thing he likes about the apartment is the partitions. There are actual walls separating rooms and doors that are actually _opaque_ — wooden, solid, and definitely not glass.

While Harry’s Muggle loft is modern, thoroughly reeking of masculinity, and nearly vainglorious, his Wizarding apartment is a tad old-world and almost cosy. Draco doesn’t particularly care for the last description because there’s still something to be said about the richness and elegance of old-world sophistication, but it’s Harry he’s talking about so it just fits.

Two different living conditions. It’s almost like Harry’s living two different lives, and not the kind where he keeps his magic secret when out with Muggles.

“The mess is all hers, if you must know,” Draco says, pointing at Ginny who’s chopping carrots.

Harry walks over to the pantry, charmed to always keep cool, and grabs a beer, popping the crown and taking a long draught. “You people have got to get a hobby. Invading my home isn’t a very fruitful pursuit.”

Draco rolls his eyes then lazily waves his wand and Vanishes the mess, leaving Ginny with more room to go about cooking. “We’re having curry. Are you having dinner with us?”

“When you offer me food from my own kitchen, how can I refuse?” Harry responds dryly, although he’s looking at Ginny as though he can’t believe he has enough of the right ingredients in his kitchen to be able to come up with a decent meal.

No surprise there, however, seeing as how the fridge in his loft only contains beer, water, orange juice, the occasional box of pastries Granger sends, and poppers, and the pantry in his apartment isn’t any better. One of these days, Draco thinks, Harry’s going to end up in a hospital. After all, poppers are only healthy when taken with chicken, everyone _knows_ that.

“So, how’s your day?” Ginny asks, moving onto the potatoes.

“Fabulous,” Harry replies, leaving the kitchen. “Has it ever been otherwise?” he continues, his voice carrying throughout the house.

It takes Harry almost half an hour to make a re-appearance in the kitchen, and Ginny’s already waiting for the curry sauce to thicken, filling the kitchen with that spicy aroma Draco knows Harry likes.

“Going anywhere?” Draco asks, midway to bringing the beer bottle to his lips. He watches as Harry carefully folds the sleeves of his gunmetal grey silk shirt up to his elbows, eyes sweeping over tousled hair, then down to the expanse of chest where Harry has left three buttons undone, and then down to the legs encased in black denims and feet in equally dark leather boots that disappear under the length of the trousers.

Harry couldn’t dress worth shit even if his life depended on it back in their Hogwarts years, but as Draco studies the slim-fit shirt, the arse-hugging trousers, and simple lace-up boots — which don’t fool Draco for a second because he knows they cost a fortune to _look_ simple — he can’t help but concede that Boy Wonder cleans up really well. Of course, he ignores the little voice inside his head that’s telling him that Harry Potter did look quite fetching during the Yule Ball and that farce of a party Slughorn held because, in the first place, he shouldn’t be thinking about those memories in a good way for they were enemies then.

Harry grins cheekily at him. “I’m going on a date.”

Draco takes note of the mischievous sparkle in Harry’s green eyes — currently the only real contrasting colour in his person — and knows better than to take the bait. Ginny, on the other hand, has been adding ingredients to her curry and has no way seen the signs.

“Really? You haven’t dated in ages! This is real good news!” She finally looks up and smiles at Harry.

“Yes, I’m thinking we’ll set the courses aside and go straight to—”

“Pudding?” Draco interjects.

“I was thinking ‘dessert.’ Sounds better.”

“Commoner.”

And then Ginny frowns as soon as understanding dawns. “Harry—”

“Oops, time’s up. Next time, Gin. Still have to pick up the roses and the ring.” And then Harry’s out the kitchen and the door and they’re hearing the faint pop of Apparition before the only sounds in the air are coming from the stove.

“Fucking Harry,” Ginny curses.

“I know. You’d think he’d thank us for the food.”

“I wasn’t talking about that!”

Draco grins. “Of course not. Easy, Red.”

“You know, sometimes I get really curious about Harry. Like where he actually disappears off to or if he really spends the night fucking his brains out every time he says he does. Where he learned to do drugs, where he got his taste for expensive clothing.”

“You know what I want to know? Who the fuck Lorelei is.” There, he’s said it, and Ginny should really understand that, yes, he’s finally asking. Her reply, however, isn’t what he’s expecting:

“So do I.”

* * *

 

Harry seems to be distracted these past few days, which is kind of hard to qualify because he’s usually distracted anyway, too busy taking note of the bright lights to give a fuck about a normal day’s goings-on. What tipped Draco off the first time was Harry’s change in temperament — a sudden irritability reminiscent of their school days. When Harry came back changed, he’d become more relaxed and laidback to the point of sometimes appearing indifferent, so it was a little suspicious when Harry suddenly began biting his and Ginny’s head off at the slightest provocation.

Draco’s gaze sweeps over the dance floor and lands on Harry, who’s dancing by himself but seems to be releasing a come-hither aura as others gravitate towards him. He truly is a beautiful man, and if Ginny were here right now, she’d look at him funny and he’d just know she’s thinking of whether he fancies Harry Potter himself.

Draco takes a breath and keeps his eyes on the Gryffindor. Harry is not a great dancer by any stretch of the imagination, too masculine to be outwardly queer in movements, but the way he dances to the beat in his own head, confident and devil-may-care, has a certain draw that’s a little hard to resist. Too sure of his own person like no one can question his existence — not that anyone will because the Boy Who Lived is still the boy who kicked Voldemort’s arse, and no one is forgetting that anytime soon.

A twink tries to hit on Harry, and it’s a testament to Harry’s distraction when he doesn’t notice it. Something’s really up, and Draco’s curiosity is strong enough to send him braving the sweaty crowd towards the annoyingly fit Gryffindor.

“Harry,” He taps Harry on the shoulder.

“Hello, B.B.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Very creative.”

“I know,” Harry grins sardonically. “Still alone? Slim pickings tonight?”

“I could ask you the same.”

Harry tilts his head, wraps his arms over Draco’s shoulders, almost dwarfing the blonde, and moves them to some semblance of the beat of the music. “I was thinking, since you’re incredibly hot tonight, that I’d stick with you.”

“That’s got to be the worst pick-up line I’ve ever heard.”

Harry gives a slow smile, and Draco thinks that he might just fancy Harry after all. And wouldn’t that be a laugh.

“If I was trying to pick you up, you’d be on your back with your legs in the air by now.”

That really should’ve offended Draco, that kind of crude humour, but the only thing it has done is send a suspicious thrill somewhere south. That’s not a very good sign.

“What’s up with you, Potter?”

Harry unabashedly grinds against him at a particular sweep of the music. “Can’t you guess?”

Draco visibly shivers, and Harry laughs when he feels it on his own skin. “Fuck, Potter, stop that!”

“And what? Deprive you of a thing of beauty?”

Sometimes, Draco really thinks Harry is an arsehole, and today is one of those days. “Screw you, Potter,” he pushes the Boy Who Lived away from him, but before he can leave, he feels Harry’s warm hand wrap around his arm, bringing him back into Harry’s loose embrace.

“I get it, all right.” There’s no outward apology because the fucking Boy Who Lived has apparently forgotten how to ask for them. “Just...just dance with me, Malfoy.”

Draco has half a mind to protest, but Harry’s looking at him so resignedly that he finds himself nodding in agreement.

And so they dance, uncaring of the other bodies around them. Draco wonders what has gotten into him to let Harry get away with anything, and he neglects to acknowledge the slow crawl of something in his system every time Harry nuzzles his neck and dances just a little bit closer.

* * *

 

Harry goes missing for three days, then four, five, and then a week passes without Draco hearing anything from him. Ginny has no idea either, but Harry’s constant dropping out of radar precludes anyone from worrying too much. Of course, Draco’s not worrying, certainly not, because he’s absolutely mad. If there’s one thing that has always made him a little crazier than normal, it’s fucking mysteries, and Harry’s becoming even more of a mystery than the Boy Who Lived already is.

And the prat had the gall to vanish. Really, sometimes Draco thinks he ought to chain him up or something, except Ginny’d probably deliberately misconstrue the effort and he’d have to live with her constant teasing about hidden desires and unrealized proclivity towards unorthodox activities.

The bitch. Good thing he likes her.

* * *

 

Draco’s just crossing the t’s and dotting the i’s in his report when the warding spell around his apartment dings, signalling a visitor at his door. He looks at his watch and grimaces at the lateness of the hour — it’s half past twelve, he’s all sore from remaining in one position for so long, his wards are relentlessly dinging in his ears, and he really should get up and answer the door. And probably curse the hell out of the person for disturbing him.

His frown, however, morphs into surprise when he opens the door and finds Harry standing there, a bottle of mescal in his hand and a subtle smile on his lips.

“Hullo, Draco Malfoy. Miss me?”

Draco tilts his head to the side, unmoving and unwilling to let Harry in. “Solved your problems, have you?”

Harry bounces on the balls of his feet. “Yes, if I actually had problems to solve in the first place.”

Okay, Draco really hates it when Harry denies his troubles and becomes flippant to whomever enquires about them. The silly git. All macho and stuff. Very irritating. “I hate it when you do that you know. And I’m calling you on it because no one else does.” When Harry came back from wherever hole he hid in all those years ago, he was more forthright than ever, and at the same time, more evasive. It’s almost funny how those two opposite adjectives describe him so well.

Harry rolls his eyes and winds his free arm around Draco’s shoulders, moving them both across the threshold. “Do what? I think we aren’t on the same page, _Draco_ ,” he drawls. “I told you before that too much work and no play make Draco Malfoy a boring, over-analytical, under-sexed, irritable git, so why still remain overworked?”

Right now, Draco’s so much tempted to call Harry ten different kinds of arsehole, but Harry being the-Harry-after-his-sabbatical is still really incorrigible, still stubbornly deflecting any enquiry about his life, so Draco just sighs and lets himself be dragged to the kitchen.

“Fuck you, Harry,” he says belatedly.

Harry chuckles. “I missed you, too, Malfoy.”

And with that, they start with Harry’s bottle of mescal, which is then followed by Draco’s bottle of Firewhiskey. And Draco’s very willing to admit that he’s incredibly pissed when, by his second glass of Firewhiskey, he says it might be a good idea to try kissing for real.

Harry stands up from the barstool he’s perched on, walks unsteadily around the counter towards Draco, and pauses when he’s towering over the blonde. “Fabulous idea, Malfoy! I always smart you were knew!”

In Draco’s alcohol-addled brain, that totally makes sense, and he’s about to agree when Harry covers his mouth with his own and the only thing that comes out is an appreciative groan.

* * *

 

Draco can feel that addictive buzz in his head as he dances with Harry on the dance floor, the beat of the song thrumming in his veins and Harry’s laughter skittering across his skin and leaving pleasant tingles that aren’t shy about travelling south. There’s nothing particularly engaging about their conversation, but Draco laughs all the same because there’s something in the room that’s making him lightheaded, and it’s probably Harry but he’s too far gone to contemplate it. He remembers to thrill, however, when Harry leans closer and whispers in his ear, lips brushing the sensitive skin.

Draco thinks the music he hears isn’t actually what’s playing in the club.

A little later, when Draco takes a break to get a drink and neglects to notice how Harry has disappeared into the backroom, Ginny comes up to him, eyes sharp, nose upturned, and mouth in a tiny frown.

“What’s up with you two?” she demands, crossing her arms.

“What do you mean?” Draco tries to hedge, but when Ginny gets like this, there’s really no keeping anything from her. And it’s not like Draco wants to keep it a secret anyway; he’s really just not up for a lecture. Although he’d be damned if he can actually keep a straight face — it’s really hard not to smile when you’re feeling overly good.

“You’re more, I don’t know, intimate than leeches on honeymoon.”

Of course, that phrasing is funny, but the smile that has bloomed on Draco’s face has nothing to do with the comparison. That is, until Ginny speaks again.

“Oh my God, Draco, what have you done?” Ginny says, horrified and worried at the same time.

“I haven’t done anything!”

“You slept with him, didn’t you? You slept with Harry!”

So Ginny’s deductive skills are really unsettlingly sharp, especially when it comes to Draco.

“So what? You slept with him, too!” he retorts a little defensively.

He did sleep with Harry, although the details are a little blurry. What he does remember is the morning after. He’d woken up with cotton in his mouth and a knee digging in his thigh, and fuck if that hadn’t fully jarred him from sleep. There had been no Richard for a while, and he would certainly remember if he’d brought home anyone that fateful night. Of course, the slight ache in his backside had further driven away sleep because that only happens when he _does_ bring someone home.

When he’d pushed whomever it was that was weighing him down, sat up, and flung away the covers, the surprise he’d felt almost made his heart stop.

There on the bed beside him, gloriously naked, was Harry Potter.

“You’re not even denying it! Oh God. And that’s different, idiot! We were together!” Then she pauses. “You’re not together, are you?”

“I don’t know whether we should be or we shouldn’t be, judging by your tone.” Draco rolls his eyes.

It had taken a while for him to feel less disorientated, and although he couldn’t remember much of what happened, he could remember bits and pieces and certain sensations. His skin had tingled, not from the morning air, but from the memory of that night — the deliberate caresses, hungry kisses, naked skin against naked skin, grabbing, tongues in places only available in private, biting, slip-sliding, _Harry, harder!_ , whispers that smelled like alcohol but tasted like dark chocolate, heat, _come for me, Malfoy_ , then white fucking light.

Ginny gives an exasperated groan. “You don’t do one-night stands! Harry doesn’t know how to do anything _but_ that! I can’t believe this!”

“Merlin, Ginevra, are there no other punctuation marks you know? Periods are particularly good, haven’t you heard?” Draco shoots back, getting touchy by the continuous remonstration in Ginny’s voice and the remembrance of his state of mind that morning.

Draco had panicked. Harry doesn’t fuck friends, and Draco doesn’t do one-night stands, and he’d felt the bile rise in his throat when he’d recalled what exactly made Harry give in to him: “Don’t go. This doesn’t change anything. You’re forever a free agent, Potter.”

He’d virtually given Potter permission to use him. And not only that, but he’d done it by — _shit_ —begging.

 “And you like him, too.”

“I do not!” he denies crossly.

It had taken a very cold shower before he’d come up with a plan: make like a Harry and pretend nothing out of the ordinary happened. There wasn’t anything he lost that night anyway. At least now he knows what it’s like to be bedded by the person everyone wants in their own beds. And the last thing he needs is Harry keen on running away from him anyway, so he’d put on his Malfoy mask and shrugged it off. It has been a good decision, too, because there has been no indication that Harry is feeling awkward around him, which the Boy Who Lived seems to perpetually feel when people vie for his affections.

Ginny stares at him meaningfully, and it’ll be a cold day in hell before he admits that she is, maybe, just a little bit right. It’s not like there aren’t a lot of people who aren’t attracted to Harry anyway so having a wee bit of a crush on the Boy Who Lived isn’t that big of a deal...even if the one having said crush is Draco Malfoy.

“I’m an adult, Ginny, I can have as many one-night stands as I like! So what if it’s Potter? Do you see me grovelling in front of him, begging to be his one and only?” Draco adds a grimace for effect. “Please.”

After a while, Ginny sighs, defeated. “Fine. Do whatever you like. I’ll be here to pick up the pieces, and I’ll make sure to glue you back together so you can be your shiny self again. Just allow me an ‘I told you so’ when the time does come.”

“Bitch.”

“You love me for it.”

* * *

 

Where before Draco gets smacks and friendly kisses from the hero of the Wizarding World, now he gets torrid snogging — in alleys, on dance floors, by the bar, probably even in club queues had Harry not been given VIP privileges by almost every club and pub in town. But it’s not always that he’s treated to a thorough kissing, well, more of a tongue-fucking, really, but that’s beside the point. The point is, sleeping with Harry Potter has proven to be not such a bad idea after all. True, nothing special came out of it, but that’s expected seeing as how Harry is such a commitment-phobe and a notorious bachelor.

And most importantly, things have been fun.

It’s a change, and the brunette on his knees in front of Draco, sucking him to completion is proof enough, especially when, across from him, Harry’s keeping eye-contact, an amused smirk on his lips.

“Having fun?” Harry asks, and the cliché isn’t lost on Draco.

“You’re welcome to join,” he replies.

Harry laughs and stalks forward, leaning over the brunette and ghosting a kiss on Draco’s lips. “Maybe next time.” He licks Draco’s lower lip, a small smile curling at the corners of his mouth when Draco moans. “Come, Malfoy.”

And Draco does come, laughing when he gets down from his high. He’s never going to understand why such a command, when coming from Harry, actually works. “Fuck, Harry, you kinky bastard!”

Harry shoos away the nameless guy, rolling his eyes when the brunette bristles and tells him to fuck off. “I wasn’t the one who came on command, now was I?” he teases, flicking his wrist for some subtle wandless magic to clean the messy blowjob before tucking Draco back in his pants.

With Draco still catching his breath and leaning his full weight against the wall, Harry towers over him, and Draco summons some post-orgasmic grit, leans forward, and bites at Harry’s chin. “Have I told you that you talk too fucking much, Potter?”

Harry pulls at his hair and kisses him silly. “C’mon, Malfoy, dance with me.”

And so they dance, and they laugh, and they grind against each other, and leave with their respective nobodies for the night.

* * *

 

The Weasel has gotten a promotion at work, and the married couple has invited Ginny and Harry and a few other close friends. Of course, Harry being Harry, has offered his place for the celebration, and since it’s his loft that’s going to be the venue of a close-knit celebration, he’s done what needs to be done to live up to his name: he’s invited Draco — fragmented notions of fair play and all. And Draco would have declined, except it’s Harry and no one says no to the Boy Who Lived. And it isn’t like the couple is completely hostile towards him; they’re pretty much accepting, if a little distanced, which is to be expected and not exactly frowned upon because Draco had hated them and they’d equally abhorred his guts...or even more.

And really, they’re decent people, and Granger’s enviable knowledge can hold conversations even when her husband’s stilted how-do-you-dos leave a lot to be desired. And the rest, well, they’re Gryffindors — plus Lovegood, but she gets a little too loony so she probably doesn’t count. What the fuck else do you expect from Gryffindors? A few jabs, awkward beginnings, then water under the bridge, even when sometimes, the water overflows.

“Hey, stranger,” Ginny sidles beside him, drink in hand and surveying the gathering.

Strings of upbeat music waft around the room, and the Gryffindors are getting a little rowdier. Harry has just arrived and he’s unconsciously drawing everyone around him as he enthusiastically congratulates Weasley, who flushes at the praises.

It always amuses Draco that Harry isn’t aware of how much people naturally gravitate towards him. It doesn’t, however, amuse him that the only reason he isn’t gravitating towards Harry right now is the pack of Gryffindors standing between him and the Boy Who Lived. There should be a better reason than that — a whole lot more, now that he thinks about it.

“Aren’t you supposed to be part of the adoring crowd?”

Ginny snorts, which should have been unlady-like, except Ginny’s in a class all of her own. “The thing about siblings is you’re supposed to rain on their parade, not be a part of it. Of course, you can’t be expected to know since you grew up alone.”

“I swear, Ginevra, every time you talk, there’s always a hidden insult. Or is that reserved especially for me?”

She favours him a saucy grin.

“Fucking she-devil.”

“If you were straight, you would be.”

Draco laughs. Once, he’d admitted to Ginny that he’d line up on her door if he hadn’t been flying on the other side of the Quidditch pitch, and now she’s never going to let it go. “We’d be good together.”

“Of course, it’s _me_ we’re talking about.”

“My, a little arrogant, aren’t we?”

“You’ve got to have a little influence on me; otherwise, you’re really just a nobody.”

“You save all your wit for when we’re together, don’t you?”

Ginny laughs and steers him away from the crowding Gryffindors, letting Draco slip his free arms around her waist as they begin to sway to the music. “I haven’t heard from you in a while. What’s up with you?”

Draco hears the underlying question, the prying that comes so naturally with women, and he barely stops himself from scoffing. “We went to Disneyland and fucked like bunnies on one of the rides, scared the innocence out of five-year-olds.”

She raises an eyebrow. “I bet you did.”

“You asked and you don’t believe me?”

“Harry doesn’t like Disneyland. Says it represents everything he wasn’t allowed when he was a kid. Metaphorically, he says, because boys don’t do Disney, apparently. Bless his heart, I think my brothers’ macho routine rubbed off on him.”

Draco has to laugh at that. He hasn’t personally been to the Muggle theme park, but he’d seen it on that talking box of Harry’s, and, well, he probably wouldn’t be visiting said theme park in the near future. “Of course they don’t do Disney. Boys do other boys.”

Ginny rolls her eyes. “In your perfect homosexual world, yes.”

“And they do Ginny Weasley.”

“Why, thank you, B.B.”

“Shut up. So, how are _you_?”

“I think I’m topping this one—”

“Nice choice of wording.”

“I’m going on tour, starts this Saturday!” Ginny continues as if he hadn’t spoken then smiles widely.

Draco smiles in return, feeling Ginny’s excitement over her job seep through his own skin. Though not a contest of any sort, it’s been kind of like a game to outdo each other in terms of their job perks. It’s one way to catch up on what’s happening outside the aspects of their lives that are tangled. Harry, being the unemployed bachelor that he is, has opted out of this ritual, but not before pulling his trump card and beating their aces with his Saviour of the Wizarding World permanent title. Of course, he’d been sarcastic about it, but Draco and Ginny had conceded defeat all the same.

Draco hates to rain on Ginny’s parade, but it only takes him a second to decide that, nope, not really. “They’re sending me to Anguilla for research. I stay for three days, research only needs a day. All-expense-paid. And yes, to _that_ resort.” He and Ginny have long salivated over the recently opened beach resort in Anguilla, which has a guest list a mile long, a stringent booking policy, and rates that, with only his compromised trust fund and no other Malfoy finances to spare, are a tad impractical. A complete luxury beach for the ages. Before the war, Draco’d never thought that Muggles had anything to be snobs about.

“No way!”

“Yes way,” answers Harry, who Ginny and Draco didn’t notice has made his way to them. He fondly chucks Ginny under the chin. “And I’m coming with him.”

“You are?” Ginny asks, surprised.

“You bet, sweet cheeks.” Harry offers her a disarming smile before slinking over to the breakfast counter and fixing himself a cocktail, which pretty much confirms Draco’s suspicion that Harry snorted something before arriving — he dislikes crowd in his loft and mixing his own drink, and the fact that he’s allowing both means that he does care for the Weasley but would gladly accept substance help to ease his pain.

The two-faced fuck. Except the married Weasleys know about this so Harry isn’t really going about it behind their backs.

Ginny gazes at him with obvious enquiry and just a smidgen of suspicion, which isn’t really a smidgen at all since it’s _Ginny_.

This time, it’s Draco who rolls his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, Ginevra, he’s playing with you. Of course he’s not coming!”

Except he is, in more ways than one as Draco sucks him off in the men’s lavatory at the Department of Transportation in the Ministry on the day he is to leave for Anguilla, a mere three days after Weasley’s celebratory gathering.

Harry’s hands are tunnelling through his hair, methodically messing up what he spent the morning fixing, but since Harry’s also making delicious noises of appreciation, Draco can’t quite summon the will to care about his hair. Knowing he’s made Harry, the most sought-after bachelor, come undone is nothing short of amazing, gratifying.

“God, Draco, you have a talented mouth,” Harry’s hoarse whisper washes over Draco.

Draco licks his lips and tastes vigour and life. “I should start charging you.” He steps back as Harry smiles at him indulgently.

“But you said so yourself: I don’t have a job. How will I pay for your services?”

The shameless bastard — shouldn’t he be scrambling to tuck himself back in his pants before somebody walks in on them? Draco wouldn’t be surprised if Harry turns out to be a real exhibitionist, but he does heave an internal sigh of relief when Harry pushes away from the wall and shows signs of righting himself because no matter how liberal he is, the Ministry of Magic isn’t the place to be showing just exactly how liberal they both can be...or Harry actually is for that matter, although most people probably know already, the media magnet that he is.

Harry’s eyes travel to Draco’s swollen lips, then lazy-smoulders southward, the gaze so sweetly deliberate that Draco swears he’s going to burst, his erection agonizingly straining against the fabric of his trousers. The door to the lavatory clicks open, but before Draco can express his disappointment, Harry has pushed himself off the wall and is quickly backing Draco towards a cubicle.

When Harry’s thigh brushes against Draco’s arousal, he groans low in his throat, but the sound is immediately swallowed when Harry dips his head and seizes his mouth in a soul-crushing kiss. His head hits the wall of the stall, and he barely hears the door lock as Harry’s magic forcefully secures the booth, charms them into silence, swirls in the air, and invades Draco’s senses so thoroughly that he detachedly wonders if the stall’s vibrating with the sudden flash of magic.

But really, Draco couldn’t care less about any kind of magic, strong or otherwise, because Harry’s hands are everywhere — under his shirt, pinching his nipples, skimming over his belt until it’s come undone, and he gasps as he feels Harry’s hot hand cradle him.

“Oh God...” He bucks towards the source of heat, and is wonderfully surprised to feel that the Boy Who Lived is hard again. The man is a fucking machine, and Draco’s insides quiver at the anticipation of what’s to come.

Harry works him sweet and slow, an agonizing torture as he mouths at Draco’s neck, licking and sucking and blowing air over the abused skin. He’s going to leave a mark, the git, but Draco can’t quite work up a protest because he’s too busy moaning and groaning and writhing and being completely under Harry’s mercy _god-fucking-dammit!_

The build-up is so frustratingly slow, and he finds himself thrusting into Harry’s hand with abandon, trying to speed up his completion, but Harry leans into him, traps him against the wall and limiting his movements.

“Bloody hell... _fuck_ , Harryyy...” he whines.

Harry licks a hot trail up the column of Draco’s neck, nibbles his ear. “Yes, Malfoy, what do you want?”

The whoosh of warm air on his sensitized skin makes Draco shudder, and when Harry’s hand leaves his cock to palm his balls, fingers exploring farther until Harry’s touching his entrance, Draco shudders an altogether different kind of tremble.

With a murmured spell, Draco’s silk shirt flies open, bearing his chest. Harry ducks to suck a nipple, and it would have been perfect except his hand has stopped its sinful journey.

Draco keens.

“Wha—” The sudden renewed grip on his cock, however, cuts him off. He whimpers, a mixture of pain and pleasure. And frustration. Fucking Potter, he wants to come! And within the minute, thank you very much.

“Shh, Draco, settle,” Harry soothes, and Draco feels he can do anything but.

 “Settle!” Draco exclaims, breathing hard and glaring when the Boy Who Lived only grins in return.

“Let’s play a game.”

“Let’s not,” Draco struggles, but he feels vindicated when he pushes against Harry and Boy Wonder groans. At least it isn’t only him who’s about to burst — Harry hasn’t fully tucked himself from earlier, and his length presses against Draco, hot and hard. “Look, Potter — _Harry_. Look, Harry, you need as much release as I do, yes? So let’s just get on with it. We don’t need games, do we?”

Harry tilts his head, as though considering what Draco said, but then he grins. “Nice try.” He chuckles then kisses the Draco briefly. “Patience, Draco. When I’m done with you, you won’t be able to walk, you see. And with your every move, you’re going to feel me, deep, deep inside, so much so that you can taste me.” Harry’s voice has dropped significantly lower, husky and spilling sex with every syllable. “Your orgasm’s going to be explosive, Draco, and no other man will come close to making you feel the way I’ll make you feel. So you need to settle for a bit because once I get going, there’s no stopping me. And believe me, you won’t want me to stop.”

And that really is what he’s afraid of. _Oh God_ , but Harry can talk! Every release of breath is like aphrodisiac coating Draco’s skin.

“Do you hear me, Draco? You’ll feel every inch of me and you’ll love it. In the three days you’re going to be spending in Anguilla, you’re not going to be able to think of anything else. Just me. Just this. Just you being pounded through a cubicle wall until you can’t think, until the only thing you know is my name and how much you ache to have me bring you off, to have me keep claiming you. Again and again.

“And when you fuck another man? You’re still going to feel me. And I’ll be what you’ll compare every future encounter with. It’s the memory of my cock fucking you that will bring you off no matter who’s doing the actual fucking.”

Draco can feel himself further harden with every word that spills from Harry’s mouth, _fuck_. His skin is prickly in its sensitivity, and if Harry just eases up a little and strokes just the right way, he swears he’ll give Harry the moon and the stars.

“So we’ll play, yes? We’ll play and I’ll let you have your release, and what a release it will be...”

Draco shivers, his anticipation so great, he can almost taste his own orgasm.

“Draco?”

“Yes...” a breathy agreement Draco barely recognizes as his own. And then he’s being turned around and pushed towards the wall, Harry’s hands still ghosting over exposed flesh and lighting every never ending.

Draco’s shirt has fallen off his shoulders, and Harry takes his time kissing the pale nape, licking at the skin until he’s nibbling on a bony shoulder, all the while keeping his hands off the part Draco needs the most touching.

“There’s only one rule, Malfoy: try not to get anyone’s attention.”

Draco doesn’t quite understand because there is a silencing charm in place so why would they attract attention?

“I’ll lift part of the silencing charm, you see. The walls of this cubicle won’t rattle no matter how hard I pound into you” — Draco shivers at the mental image — “but voices will carry. Every sound you make will be audible to anyone who enters this lavatory, and when they try the door to this cubicle, it will give.” Harry leans impossibly closer, and Draco can’t help but gasp at the press of a hard cock against the cleft of his arse.

“Potter, are you daft!”

Harry chuckles. “Scared, Malfoy?”

Of course he is! Certain spots can’t be hit without drawing a vocal reaction from Draco, and he’s sure as hell that Harry’s bent on relentlessly hitting that certain spot in the next few minutes. And _then_ where will they be? _Fuck!_ He has never had any desire to be walked in on while being fucked silly by the tarnished Golden Boy, or any other boy for that matter. And especially not at the Ministry.

“Po—”

“Hush, now, Draco. The spell’s been modified. We don’t want anyone to come barrelling into this cubicle, now do we?”

Oh sweet Merlin, he’s so going to bite a hole through his lip by the end of this encounter.

Draco’s shirt has fallen off his person completely, and he stands there, supported by the wall, his trousers and pants around his ankles, and so unbearably aroused that he completely forgets to consider how embarrassingly wanton he must look so open like that, all for Harry to take and do with as he pleases.

Harry presses a chaste kiss on Draco’s hair, one hand finally skimming over where Draco needs to be touched and the other kneading a pebbled nipple until Draco’s firmly settled between the planes of pain and pleasure. He pushes back against the hardness of Harry’s own arousal then surges forward into the tanned hand, but it’s barely enough, the contact not nearly enough to satisfy him, the pace just a little too languid to bring him off.

When Harry rocks forward, Draco curses, and Harry’s quick to whisper in his ear, “Easy, Draco, not too loud.”

The fucking bastard! Why won’t he just go and fuck Draco already? But of course, he wants Draco to tell him those two magical words. The bloody prick. The bloody fucking prick. But when Harry tugs at his balls a little too expertly, he forgets why he’s hesitating to plead.

“Oh God, Harry, just _fuck me_ already!” Draco hisses, feeling a sweet rumble low in his belly when Harry chuckles.

Harry does another stint of wandless magic that never fails to excite Draco, and Draco feels slick fingers working him open, purposeful and teasing at the same time.

Harry continues loosening him up, merciless digits scissoring and crooking to draw ragged breaths from him, and just when he thinks he can’t take it anymore, Harry breaches him, fast and cruel, and Draco brings his fist to his mouth to prevent from making any noise because the lavatory door has just opened, bringing with it the _tap-tapping_ of a gentleman’s wingtips.

Harry fills him, and the pleasant sting of penetration makes Draco push back, taking Harry deeper in him. He can set the pace. Declare the speed with which Harry will piston in and out of him, but it’s only really in his mind because Harry works at his own pace, moves at his own leisure, and takes and takes and takes until Draco thinks it’s actually for him that Harry’s doing whatever it is he’s doing.

The Gryffindor pulls away, just far enough to almost slip out of Draco, and then just as slowly pushes back in. Again and again, a slow rhythm that’s perfectly maddening, teasing Draco’s prostrate but not hitting it hard enough to matter. And Draco should really complain, but Harry’s also working his prick, pulling him in and out of the haze of continuous pleasure.

When Draco finally reaches back with a hand to Harry’s hip and impales himself further on Harry’s cock, he feels gratified at hearing the restrained but drawn-out groan from the dark-haired man. He does it again, and it doesn’t take long before Harry decides to stop teasing and set a furious pace. The denims he hasn’t discarded abrade Draco’s skin, but Draco can hardly care when, this time, Harry’s ruthlessly hitting his prostate at nearly every downstroke.

Heat. So much heat and slick skin and _Harry_.

Draco chokes on a sob when he hears the gurgle of water from the wash basins, reminding him that he and Harry aren’t alone. He can taste the blood on his lips as he bites hard to keep from making any noise, which is nearly impossible as tendrils of white hot pleasure zip up and down his spine, inside his belly, and towards his cock at the maddening sensations Harry is rousing inside him. And he’ll be forever grateful when Harry nudges his ear to make him turn his head towards the Boy Who Lived, who promptly kisses him to swallow another appreciative groan that’s the result of Harry’s hand’s renewed tugging on Draco’s cock.

Draco can already feel the build-up to his orgasm, his balls tightening, and he knows Harry is close, too, by the way Harry has further picked up the pace and left Draco’s mouth to suck on the junction connecting neck and shoulder.

“Harry... So close... Oh God...” he says in broken whispers, detachedly cursing the intruder for not leaving quickly and allowing him the _ah-ah-ahs_ that usually spill from his lips when he’s being given a thorough seeing-to and is about to explode.

Draco presses his cheek against the cool wall of the cubicle as he meets Harry’s thrusts, and the world just about shatters when, on a particular downstroke, Harry sucks hard on his exposed neck and gives a rough tug on his cock. Brilliant lights go off behind his eyelids and the wail that rips from of his throat is loud and timely, expressed just when the door closes as the intruder leaves.

Wave after wave of tingles and spasms wracks Draco’s body, all coming out of him with Harry’s name branded on each.

After milking Draco of his pleasure, Harry’s hand leaves Draco’s spent cock. He braces the wall with a sticky palm, his other hand still clamped on the blonde’s hip as he pounds into the Slytherin, this time searching for his own release.

Draco is just getting down from his high, and he winces a little when his overly sensitive cock twitches as Harry rocks into him with abandon, but his orgasm has rendered him pliant and more than willing to see through Harry’s own orgasm. Not that he has ever denied the other man that because as impossible as it may seem, Harry’s orgasm is almost always orgasmic for Draco, too — honest and unrestrained, leaking contentment until it has seeped so thoroughly into Draco’s skin that it’s almost as if he has climaxed yet again.

Two, three more thrusts and Harry comes, his head bowed, pressed against Draco’s back, and Draco shivers as he feels the Gryffindor’s orgasm bleed into him, powerful, predictably catching, and for a moment making him believe that he could come again in the span of a few seconds. When he opens his eyes, he allows himself a lazy smirk at seeing Harry’s silicone bracelet dangling from a wrist on which a string of Draco’s come still lingers — it reads: LIFE.

And, good goddamn, what a life it is.

Draco laughs, and Harry joins him when he’s gotten his breathing controlled.

“Merlin, Potter, if that isn’t kinky, I don’t know what is!” Harry turns him around and kisses him leisurely, playing at the corner of his mouth, tonguing teeth-worried lips that taste of blood, and whispering a healing charm that’s both cool and warm on Draco’s mouth.

“Where’d you learn wandless magic?” Draco asks, licking his lower lip to see if it still tastes metallic and only tasting Harry on it.

“At school.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Yeah, and somehow, I missed that.”

“Well, you were a right prat, and you schemed and schemed back then, how were you supposed to notice?” Harry affords him that angelic smile that could have easily been demonic.

Draco barely forebears a wince. Harry doesn’t like talking about the past, that much is obvious, but he doesn’t shy away from the task whenever it’s brought up, only, he does it with so much nonchalance that it’s almost as if he’d only been an observer instead of an active participant.

“Like I had nothing else better to do than notice anything about you,” Draco drawls, not believing Harry one whit. Of course, when Harry’s grin grows, Draco gets a suspicious feeling that Golden Boy doesn’t believe him in return.

“Right.”

Draco rolls his eyes and pushes Harry away, mumbling about getting dressed, when Harry flicks his wrist and they’re both clothed and groomed as though they hadn’t just done the naughty mere minutes ago. “Show off.”

An amused glint in bright green eyes. “You get off on it.”

And Draco does because every casual display is like a sign telling him just how virile Harry is, just how much people will pay to have the Saviour of the Wizarding World where Draco has him now.

* * *

 

Draco’s lounging on the bed, gloriously sated and admiring Harry’s naked arse as the other man pours himself a stiff drink over by the wet bar. It’s Draco’s last night at the stupendously expensive resort, and Harry had been right: Draco hadn’t been able to think of anything else but that hot fuck in a Ministry bathroom the day he left for Anguilla. He, for that matter, had been right as well: Harry wasn’t staying with him in Anguilla. And Harry really hadn’t — he’d flooed to who knew where after their lavatory encounter.

The previous night, he had spent alone and cursing how high Harry had set the bar because he hadn’t been able to bring anyone home with him, what with thoughts of a thorough fucking running in his head with Harry doing the fucking. He’d indulged in a club, all right, and an incredibly hot brunette did go down on him, but being sucked to oblivion and being fucked to kingdom come are two very different things. Not to mention that a Muggle brunette has no match for a Wizard brunette who has the world bending over backwards for him.

“I’m going to tell Ginny you were screwing with her.” Apparently, Harry knows that Ginny knows about the two of them and is quite disapproving of it, and it’s a surprise to learn that he isn’t above screwing with her so he’d let her believe they’d be spending sinful days in Anguilla that night in his loft.

Of course, Draco’s going to tell Ginny as soon as he gets back. And he’s going to watch the fireworks from afar because he’s still Draco Malfoy and Harry needs someone to call him on his shit. He’s quite sure that Ginny’s going to get back at Harry, and isn’t their relationship just healthy?

“Well, I wasn’t because I was screwing you, if memory serves.” Harry turns around to smirk at him before downing his drink in one go, the action so subtly predatory and male that Draco feels another stirring despite coming — and spectacularly at that — just a minute ago.

Harry is always agreeable after sex, which isn’t really a surprise because who wouldn’t be? And Draco, secure in the notion that things are going swimmingly, forgets himself for a while and asks for something that is only usually asked in relationships, “There’s this ball at work, a birthday celebration of some sort for the big boss. Come with me?”

It’s only after he says it that he remembers why he shouldn’t have asked in the first place. This is Harry Potter, and he doesn’t do boyfriends. Shit, and Draco’s already trying to take back the words, knowing it’s impossible to get Harry to agree. However, the man in question only cocks his head to the side, no signs of his usual cynicism when faced with anything relationship-related.

“Wow, how old-fashioned.” Harry shakes his head. “Sure, why not? Maybe there’d be someone dressed in Victorian.”

Draco watches as Harry quietly snickers at the joke Draco doesn’t understand and makes his way back towards the bed, pouncing on Draco when he’s near enough.

“I’ve never fucked in your office. I just might take a camera with me. Go commando, all right?”

And really, who’s Draco to protest against a request like that when the mere thought of what Harry must be planning is already going straight to his place of services?

Things should’ve been brilliant after that, after Harry’s agreement, but of course, the new guy at Draco’s work is such a fanatic, hounding the Harry Potter, getting drinks for the Harry Potter, bending over backwards for _the_ Harry Potter, and still the Harry Potter won’t bend the bloody newbie over a couch.

Draco thinks it’s amusing; Harry only gets more distant.

And as Harry becomes more uncomfortable in his surroundings, the more he gets flirtatious and bold, and Draco’s thankful that at least it’s not with the newbie.

Except it isn’t with him either. And then he isn’t so amused anymore. Especially when, by the end of the night, Harry goes home with someone who isn’t him.

Fuck.

He’s jealous when before he hardly cared.

* * *

 

Draco bangs on tarnished steel doors like he’s out to carry bloody murder, which he most probably is, given his ragged breathing and the evil intent that’s pouring out of him in waves.

“Potter! Open up!” and you better not have that fucking twink with you, he wants to add but he doesn’t. “Open up! Open the fuck up, Potter!” he continues, unmindful of Harry’s neighbours below the floor of Harry’s loft. Who cares? They’re Muggles, and Muggles can’t possibly be that high on his list of people he gives a damn about when he’s about to murder one Harry Potter who’s the most Muggle in his circle of friends.

The steel doors slide open and Harry peers into the hallway, eyes squinting at the difference in lighting. And then he heaves a great sigh. “Malfoy, one of these days, I’ll put a knife through your chest for always dropping on my doorstep at the wrong time of the day.” He barely manages to cover a huge yawn.

“How very Muggle of you.” Draco isn’t amused. He pushes Harry aside and marches inside the loft, sneering at the darkness before hitting the switches and flooding the place with blinding light.

“What the fuck, Malfoy?”

Draco rounds in on Harry, wishing with every fibre of his being that he’s making everything hard for the Boy Who Lived, the fucker. “Here’s what the fuck is! How _dare_ you, Potter! I invited you! I fucking invited you! What the hell were you trying to show?”

A pause.

“What?” Harry is clearly clueless, which only angers Draco more.

“Last night, at the party. Were you trying to make a fool out of me? We came together! We came together and you left me on my own! What do you think people thought? Draco Malfoy couldn’t leave the night with his own fucking date! Who, by the way, was all over someone else!”

Harry’s mouth closes with a snap, a muscle in his jaw ticking, but Draco ignores it.

“You don’t get to do that to me, Potter.”

“It wasn’t a date.”

“It bloody well was! I asked you to come!”

Harry rubs the back of his neck, looking pained and trapped. “Malfoy, we don’t do dates. This isn’t some Stepford fag fantasy. You _know_ that.”

“No, I _don’t_. We’re in a fucking relationship, Harry. Work with me.” And there he’s said it. The R-word. And as he sees Harry’s face close off, Draco knows he’s stepped over his bounds. The problem is, he just can’t stop.

“Mal— Draco, you can’t possibly think we’re in a relationship. This thing between us” — Harry gestures between them — “it’s a game. You know that. You know—”

“Don’t fucking tell me what I know!” Draco explodes because he does know what Harry’s talking about. It’s just that he doesn’t want to accept it. _Can’t_ accept it, so deluded is he that he’s different from everyone else. “You can’t tell me you don’t feel anything for me,” he pokes Harry’s chest. “It’s time to grow up, Potter! You can’t live like this forever. You can’t trick forever.”

“I always seem to be able to pull off things an average man couldn’t, so really, who’s to say?”

There it goes again, that casual tone, dismissive of the serious conversation from earlier and grating on Draco’s nerves.

“Fuck you, Potter. I know what you’re doing. It won’t work on me. I _know_ you. You can play all the games you want but—”

“Really, Malfoy? You know me?”

All traces of sleep has long evaporated from Harry’s person, and now that Draco’s ignoring all the signs and pushing and pushing and pushing, Harry turns offensive. Draco can almost feel Harry uncurling and pouncing, choosing to attack because Draco has cornered him.

“You know what I want, Malfoy?” The Gryffindor moves a step closer, every inch the imposing lion he’s always been. “I want to bend you over all available surfaces.” He takes another step forward, and Draco, despite himself, feels the anticipation simmering just beneath his skin. “The couch, the counter, the table. Spread you wide and fuck you fast.”

Back when he was with Richard, dirty talk couldn’t distract Draco from his anger, but Harry’s doing such a fine job of derailing his thoughts, and anger mixed with arousal in his system. The fucking cheat.

“That’s what I want, Malfoy. I want you naked and needy.”

“Potter! Stop this!” Draco exclaims, scandalized at how turned on he is, at how easy it is for him to be manipulated.

“I want you beneath me, whimpering, begging for release. I want you against the wall, scrabbling for purchase while I fuck you until you see stars. I want you bent over my desk, panting and pushing back as I pound into you.”

Draco feels the backrest of the couch against the back of his thighs, realizing that he’s been retreating with every onward movement of the stalking Gryffindor. But Harry’s still moving steadily closer that Draco finds himself putting up his hands to physically ward him off. He’s horribly turned on, his skin prickly with want, but he’s also incredibly incensed that the predatory Golden Boy is using his sexual prowess to upset his equilibrium.

Harry steps closer still, his chest pressed against Draco palms, and for a brief, detached moment, Draco marvels at how warm the other man’s skin is.

“I want you bent over this couch and coming so hard, the stain you leave will never be washed out. That’s what I want, Malfoy. Not some fairytale shit, not some white picket fence dream of a fucking fag who’s wishing for commitment and marriage and settling down and adopting a fucking runt of kids. Because if we have that, we’d have to act like all those fucking heterosexual lovers. We’d have to change. And why change, Malfoy? Why change when everything is going so brilliantly?”

Harry’s not even shouting, yet Draco feels the attack more fiercely than when they were yelling at each other back at Hogwarts.

“That’s not—” but he doesn’t finish because Harry’s kissing him, violent and demanding. He makes to push the shit off him, but Harry seizes his hands in a vice-like grip, wedging a thigh between his legs, and taking advantage of his already painful erection.

It doesn’t take long before Harry’s pulling off his clothes carelessly. Draco, seeing the roughness as a way to make him submit, retaliates, scratching and grabbing, unbuttoning Harry’s jeans and shoving his hand in and wondering when fighting his aggressor off means the same as getting him naked.

Harry hisses, but he never turns idle and soon, he’s walking his talk and bending Draco over the pristine white couch. And then over his desk. And then up against a wall, a column, spread beneath him on the floor, vulnerable and pliant, on the bed, pounding, insatiable, branding his very name on Draco’s skin, and Draco, on his part, is having a hard time catching his breath.

* * *

 

Draco wakes up at the sound of someone cursing and the darkness of the room disorients him for a while. He burrows into the blankets when a chill steals up his spine, the movement accenting the pleasant soreness in his backside. He listens to the sounds in the room. It’s awfully dark although he knows it can’t be the evening yet, and the pattering of the rain answers his question.

Outside the bedroom, he hears Harry talking urgently to someone, and probably on the phone, too, as there isn’t any other source of noise. He doesn’t feel guilty about eavesdropping because, really, after everything, he’s still Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter’s still an interesting fountain of gossip material and since Harry fucking Potter was being a shit earlier, he’s lost a few respect points from Draco.

“Fix me a portkey.”

“No, next month.” Draco can almost see Harry rolling his eyes. “Of course right now! Fuck, were you even listening? Go straight to the Minister if you have to, I don’t care what you do, but I’m getting a portkey _right the fuck now!_ ”

Draco’s heart thumps faster at that. Harry’s leaving?

“Merlin, you’re useless. Get me a fucking plane then! I’ll take the plane. And you better grovel good because you’re too close to getting fired!”

Draco winces. It didn’t hit him until now just how much Harry has changed. Gone is the bumbling idiot who can’t be mean even if his life depended on it, and in his place is a man who knows how to wield the power he has, aggressive and relentless and a fucking player whom Draco shouldn’t have gone to bed with. Fuck, who’s this guy and what has he done to Harry Potter?

“I’m on my way.”

The change in tone suggests that Harry’s talking to another person, different from the one he was reprimanding earlier, and the content of his sentence nearly rips a cry from Draco. He can’t leave. Harry can’t leave without telling him. Oh God, has he pushed Harry too far?

He’s scrambling to get the covers off him, hasty in his fear of what’s coming, and he’s almost out of the bed when the unmistakable pop of Apparition echoes inside the loft.

The loft that’s too Muggle to stand the currents of magic. The loft whose LED lights are now flickering like mad due to magic. Magic that has never touched the flat since Harry bought it. And the silence is now more oppressive. Too ironically loud in his ears and telling him that at this moment, he’s completely alone in the flat he grew to love but he’s now beginning to resent.

All too suddenly, the 300-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets feel scratchy against his skin.

**xxx**


	2. The One Where There's Sex With Other People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Karma, Draco opines, is a bitter bitch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See Disclaimer at the end of the chapter.

“Hello, sunshine, I see you’re exuding such extreme brightness this fine morning,” Ginny says, sitting across Draco and looking at him funny.

Draco grimaces and offers his untouched mimosa, which she dutifully frowns at. “I missed your sarcastic tongue. I really did. Don’t mind that I lie all the time.”

“So what crawled up your arse and died?” Ginny signals for a waiter to bring her a cup of coffee.

“How lovely that your first concern after coming home from tour is my arse. I’m flattered. To return the favour, how’s yours?”

Ginny rolls her eyes and cuffs him.

“Did you just cuff me?” Draco exclaims, wide-eyed and suddenly out of his funk.

“Well, I didn’t just kiss you, did I? And speaking of kissing, where’s Harry?”

Draco’s usually the sharpest tool in the shed, but even he finds that confusing. “How’d you get from ‘kissing’ to ‘Harry’?”

“I don’t know. How’d _you_ get from disliking Harry to getting buggered by him?”

Draco glares at the crudeness. “Seriously, Ginny, have you always been this sarcastic?”

“I don’t know, but I’ve always been lovely. Does that count?”

Draco rolls his eyes, not once cracking a smile. “Oh yeah, loads.”

“PMS-ing even when you’re not a girl. A record.” Ginny laughs at her own joke. “Wow, you’re only ever this moody with me when something bad has happened.”

Draco wishes then that he hasn’t just winced or that Ginny has somehow failed to notice. But of course, she hasn’t because the humour has gone out of her face and really, he should fucking know how to guard is reactions. For fuck’s sake, he’s not eleven.

“What happened? Where’s Harry?” she sounds genuinely concerned now, and Draco finds her concern deeply misplaced.

He’s already scowling before he can stop himself. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Draco—”

“Why don’t we just eat breakfast and not talk about him? Surely there’s more interesting things we can discuss.”

“You broke up, didn’t you?”

“ _I_ wouldn’t know, now would I, seeing as we were never in a relationship.” Draco glares like he was wont to back in their Hogwarts years, taunting and defensive at the same time, and he thinks that maybe he’s really still eleven. “Why don’t you just tell me ‘I told you so’ and get it over with?” Defensive, definitely.

“Do you really want me to?” Ginny waits for an answer that isn’t coming. “Draco, where’s Harry?”

Draco can’t understand why Ginny just can’t fucking let it go. He’s already said that he doesn’t know, why is that so hard to understand? God, what the fuck is Ginny trying to do anyway? Because by constantly asking the same thing again and again, she’s surely trying to understand something that he himself can’t.

Shit, why does this woman have to be so fucking shrewd?

“I don’t know, Ginevra. I don’t know how I can make that any clearer. He left. He was there then he left. Fell off the radar, as is his habit. End of story.” Harry usually goes missing for days, but this time is different. Draco can tell. Something between them happened before Harry left, something that wasn’t properly addressed and he just knows that this time is _different_.

For a blessed while, Ginny doesn’t pursue another question, until she speaks again in a tone that’s supposed to be questioning but Draco knows better, “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

His fork clutters to the ground. So that’s what she was trying to piece together! No, of course not. That’s _insane_. He’s just smarting because he wasn’t the one who left first. Slighted pride and all that. In love with Harry Potter? Ridiculous.

“You’ve gone mental,” and before Ginny can reply, he’s dropping a few sickles on the table and standing up to leave. Ginny doesn’t stop him, and as he moves to the exit and prepares to Dissaparate, he can’t help but feel cheated, in more ways than one.

If he’d left first, would Harry have gone after him, or would he have just sat there like Ginny?

* * *

 

Draco buries his head under the pillow, wishing that whoever’s pounding on his door would just leave him and his dinging wards in peace. Maybe this was how Harry felt every time he pounded on the Gryffindor’s door, and for a moment, he relishes the fact that he’s more than done his share in disturbing Harry’s life. Just for a moment because he’s resolved to stop thinking of the bloody git. It’s not like he’s actually in love with Potter because he’s fucking not. That’s just Ginny’s way of fucking with him, saying stupid things and sounding like a bloody know-it-all. So much like Granger in school.

Draco winces. Great, he’s even thinking of Granger. Of all the things that life could hand him, it had to be a relationship with the Gryffindor lot. Karma, he opines, is a bitter bitch.

Heaving the sigh of the weary, he finally gets up from his comfortable bed and trudges towards the source of the noise.

“Can’t a guy get some fucking peace around here?” he lets out as soon as he opens the door, and he promptly regrets his decision to get up when he sees Ginny on the other side, looking anything but apologetic.

“I was afraid you’d gone deaf.”

“I was afraid it was some lowly Weasley, and lo and behold, my fears came true,” he replies dryly, not moving an inch and giving a clear indication that Ginny isn’t welcome. “The story of my life.”

Ginny rolls her eyes and pushes her way in, earning an indignant grunt from Draco. “I leave you for half a week and you get all princessy. Seriously. Have you had breakfast?”

Well. Draco doesn’t quite know what to say. Didn’t she just leave him on his own a few days back? Wasn’t she a bitch then, too, the kind that he actually hates? “What are you doing here, Ginevra?”

Ginny sighs and shrugs. “I made a mistake, okay? I thought you could pull yourself together on your own. I was never there for you when you got fired from your first job, your second and third, neither was I there when Richard cheated on you. Not because I didn’t want to be, but because you did everything on your own — you’re good at that and we never had a problem with it. I should’ve known Harry breaks every fucking pattern.”

And there it is, so blatantly obvious that it’s almost blinding. It’s how he and Ginny work — it’s what allows him to get back on his feet, his independence, and now that Ginny has only really followed what he prefers, he’s bitter because he’s forgotten that Harry shouldn’t have been different from any other hardship he’s ever faced. He’s never needed a shoulder to cry on ever since he grew a spine, and fucking Potter just has to fucking change that! And he’s left feeling bitter that Ginny knows him better than he knows himself.

“Stop implying that there’s anything deeper than repeated shags,” he says instead, sniping and aiming to get Ginny off track with his acid tongue.

Ginny raises her arms in mock surrender, but the expression on her face is quite telling that she doesn’t believe him. “Fine, there isn’t.”

“There really isn’t!”

“Fine, Draco, I said fine.” Ginny has this calculated look that Draco doesn’t quite trust. “Come now, let’s have a spot of breakfast.”

“I already ate.”

“No, you didn’t. You sprawled on your bed and played that woe-is-me card. Won’t work on me. Come on.”

And when Ginny gets like that, there’s really no changing her mind. She’s so sure of herself, so aware of what she can do, so confident that everyone would get her meaning, read the underlying Gryffindor goodness, and by Merlin, they do because otherwise would mean they’re stupid.

Draco sighs. Ginny Weasley, a woman for the ages.

“I hate you.”

“I love you, too, doll face. Come on, you’re dangerously skinny.”

* * *

 

Sometimes, the universe has one screwed-up sense of humour, and its favourite target is Draco Malfoy. Really, it’s getting old, except it seemingly doesn’t stop so maybe it’s him who’s not getting the joke. Or maybe because it’s him who’s getting laughed at and he’s more than tempted to scream bloody murder.

“Look, there’s everyone! Come on,” Ginny chirps from beside him, the bloody bint.

Draco looks at her as though she’s just grown two heads. Seriously. Didn’t the past week happen? Didn’t this morning leave one intelligent thought in her head? Why in fuck’s name would he want to join “everyone” when in the middle of it all is that Gryffindor prick?

“Ginny.”

“I thought there isn’t anything more to it?”

Draco groans. Oh, he so should’ve known that _that_ would come back and bite him in the arse. “You bitch.”

“Bitch, witch, we all are, B.B.”

Now Ginny is really being unfair, and by all rights, he should walk out on her, never speak to her again for her double-crossing, but he can’t because this is a challenge. Oh God, it is, and Ginny knows how to play her cards well even if he’s still trying to piece the whole game together and shouldn’t have been able to tell that Ginny’s an ace player.

“Hey, guys!” Ginny calls out.

“Ginny, B.B.!” Harry greets, the smile on his face bright and real, like nothing out of the ordinary happened. Like he was never gone, never left Draco on his own, and maybe Draco’s just exaggerating things. Surely Harry can’t be that glad to see both of them if there’s something wrong between the two of them, can he?

“B.B.?” Weasley asks after nodding at Ginny and Draco. Of all the Gryffindors, ironically enough, Weasley had probably been the easiest to befriend. Not that Draco generally goes out of his way to befriend Gryffindors, but they come with the job, like Ginny’s excess baggage or something.

Draco once beat him at chess and then they were good. No apologies asked and none extended. Although, having nearly had his jaw broken by Weasley’s fist during the war might have done something to soften the redhead. The violent prat. And yes, they don’t normally hang out, but Draco has long accepted that some people are just too good to be healthy and that Gryffindors are one of those people and, conversely, isn’t apt to turn away people who’re not radiating evil vibes. Shit, sometimes Draco wishes he’s still viewed as that slimy spawn of evil of their childhood days. Not so much as the “slimy” part, per se, but the “evil” part should be rewarding.

“Beloved bastard?” Harry offers, easily taking a kiss on the cheek from Ginny.

“Oh honestly,” Granger interjects, rolling her eyes and sounding so much the Granger of their Hogwarts years that for a heartbeat, Draco wonders how exactly he came up with that seeing as he didn’t hang out with her kind back then. Then again, he tended to eavesdrop on nearly every occasion he got the chance to, so that was probably how he heard her.

“Why, fuck you very much, Potter, that was lovely,” he says, coming out of his stupor before they notice anything wrong with him. _Not_ that there is.

He gingerly takes the empty seat beside Harry because under normal circumstances, that’s where he would normally sit, preferring Harry’s presence a million times over Granger’s and Weasley’s, and, recently, maybe even over Ginny’s since she’s being a cunt.

Draco barely represses a shiver when Harry’s fingers slide over his nape to tug at his hair, feeling all too warm against his skin. And all too intimate even if Harry probably doesn’t mean for it to be.

“No cursing in front of the lady.”

Ginny takes offense at that, leaning across Draco and chucking Harry’s chin none too gently. “So Hermione’s a lady, and I’m not? You two curse worse than sailors in front of me!”

Harry laughs and is about to reply when he gets cut off by someone calling him.

“Harry, do you think— Oh. Hello.”

Draco looks up to see a willowy woman with dark hair, olive skin, and, quite possibly, the most alluring face most women could only dream of having. Draco blinks. She’s not quite pretty in the conventional way, he reconsiders, but with the just-so tilt of her eyes and her small mouth, well, she’s something. Draco may have been bent as a spoon, but he knows to appreciate a beautiful face when he sees one, and she _is_ beautiful, in an off-kilter kind of way.

Immediately, Draco hates her because he knows. Oh God, he just knows, and he really shouldn’t have gone to breakfast with Ginny. He shouldn’t have allowed her to pull him towards Harry’s table, and he really shouldn’t have chosen the seat closest to Harry because it’s so obvious who’s been sitting there. Fuck. He can almost feel the bile rise in his throat.

Harry uncoils from his chair, and Draco immediately feels the warmth leave his person when Harry removes his hand from where he’s touching. And then Harry’s moving towards the woman, placing a hand on the small of her back, a gesture so familiar that Draco finds himself having a hard time swallowing. But fuck if they didn’t look good together, Harry and her. Not quite the same when Harry was with Ginny, but just as good, nearly engineered to fit.

His throat feels tighter.

“Lorelei, this is Draco, and this is Ginny.”

He feels Ginny shift in the seat beside him, moving to shake Lorelei’s hand, and in that second, he can either do the same or walk out. He didn’t hear who it was that Harry was talking to on the phone that night, but he’d sensed the urgency, knew that it wasn’t just anybody that Harry was talking to. He’s always been astute — able to put two and two together right away — but right now, he wishes that he isn’t. Wishes that he can ignore the tiny voice in his head that’s reminding him that this is the person Harry left him for that night.

Because she can’t be anybody else.

When he stands up to shake her hand, she smiles at him, all soft and firm at the same time, but the sweep of her eyes over his person makes the hair on his nape stand on end. God, he hates her already.

“What a beautiful sight,” Harry begins. “All my favourite people under one big umbrella.”

“Oh, shut up, Harry,” Granger says and Harry snickers. “I don’t understand how you can stand him, Lorelei, he makes the worst jokes.” By her tone, it seems that unlike he and Ginny, Granger and Weasley actually know Lorelei. Actually know the person who supposedly had converted Harry. Except, they should be mad at her, at her audacity to influence the Boy Who Lived to stray from the moral path. But quite clearly, they’re not.

“He makes up for it in another department, if you know what I mean.”

“I did _not_ need to hear that!” Weasley exclaims, making gagging noises. “I think you two should beat it. Go. Whoever said we need to spend quality time together?”

Harry laughs and bends down to drop a kiss on Granger’s forehead before clapping Weasley at the back. “Good thing for you, we’ve other places to be.” And then he’s kissing Ginny goodbye and chucking Draco’s chin just like what he used to do before.

Before the phone call. Before the fucking.

Before the kissing.

Before that stupid reassurance that _you’re forever a free agent, Potter_.

When Draco pulls out money from his wallet a little later, he wonders how he’s survived breakfast without Granger and Weasley cottoning on to his problems when he’s so sure he’s fucking broadcasting every negative emotion he could possibly feel. Fuck, he really should learn how to keep his emotions to himself. Too reactive when he was a kid, and years later, nothing much has changed.

Funnily enough, it’s still Potter to whom he’s reacting, and he thinks that history should really learn not to bloody repeat itself.

* * *

 

The only heterosexual who’s allowed in a gay club, in Draco’s opinion, is Ginny Weasley, so what the fuck is Lorelei doing here? And hogging Harry for herself for that matter.

Draco grabs a shot by the bar and downs it without a second thought. What rankles the most, however, isn’t that Harry’s with her, but that while everyone around them is basically trying to get off under the guise of dancing, she and Harry are swaying to a beat that’s different from the one playing — barely dancing really and more of pressing in close and being so fucking intimate in a way that’s beyond sexual. He’s resolved not to get jealous, but he’s never really too good at controlling his emotions.

After that fateful breakfast and first meeting, nothing has seemed to change in Harry, at least, nothing from an outsider’s perspective. But Draco can tell because he knows what’s missing. There are no more kisses. No more come-ons. No more touches that go beyond the border of friendship. It’s like they’re back to what they had before they first slept together, and Harry has never shown any indication that something between them happened. No recognition whatsoever even when it’s only him, Draco, and Ginny in the same room.

But he’s still so ever kind, so ever sweet, and so unfailingly _Harry_ that it breaks Draco’s heart because he’s being treated like how Harry treats the rest of his friends even when he’s known Draco inside and out, kissed him until they both couldn’t breathe, fucked him until they both couldn’t stand, shared the same bed and slept so tangled with each other that one couldn’t have left the bed without waking the other.

Draco downs another shot and watches with morbid fascination as Harry kisses Lorelei’s closed lids, then her nose, then her cheeks, the actions so incongruous with the strobe lights, the hormone level in the room, the fucking environment in general that his breath catches. And then he’s downing another shot and stalking straight towards the grinding mass of people, intent to show that he’s okay.

It doesn’t take long before he’s swamped with offers.

And it only takes a minute before he chooses and drags both of them to the backroom. _Make like a Harry_ , that’s all there is to it.

For the first time in nearly two weeks, Draco’s feeling amazingly fine. In fact, more than fine, judging by the pounding of his heart in his chest and the beat of blood in his ears that is, funnily enough, never decreasing despite pooling generously somewhere south as he gets enthusiastically sucked within an inch of his life. This feels good. Too ridiculously good in fact that he sends his gratitude to whomever first thought of blow jobs and finding out how fun they could be, and fuck all institutions for not making that guy a saint.

The man on his knees in front of Draco takes him deeper in his mouth, and Draco’s back arches off the wall, coming and coming and coming and thinking that he’s been a fool for the past few days, moping around because Harry fucking Potter upped and left, because suddenly, Potter’s becoming _that_ kind of Boy Wonder with a girl. Well. He was the one who said that nothing needed to change so nothing did and Harry’s just being the same fucking boy who doesn’t do relationships, doesn’t do dates, doesn’t stick to one, and doesn’t owe anyone except, perhaps, Lorelei.

That’s just too bad for him, he supposes, but he’s had a lot of disappointments in his life and Harry won’t be the last of them. He’s Draco Malfoy. He can deal.

“Wanna go take this somewhere else?” the man on his knees asks.

And this is how he’s chosen to do it. Fuck Potter. He can go ahead and dance all sappy-like with Lorelei. Whatever. He doesn’t know what he’s lost.

“Hey, still up for more?” the man asks again.

Draco thinks he’s missed something the guy said, but he doesn’t force himself to gather his wits right away, waits until he’s completely down from his high, buttons his trousers, leans down to pat the other man on his cheek, and altogether dismisses that he probably isn’t answering the right question, “You’ve been a very good boy, now toddle off and share your talent.” And then he’s walking away,

_Make like a Harry indeed._

* * *

 

When Harry returned from his supposed sabbatical, he returned too changed — aloof, confident, with a predilection for the night light and the sins of the flesh. And Draco thinks that that hasn’t been such a bad thing, and if anything, it’s really exciting as he himself tries it on for size and finds himself too lightheaded to worry about his troubles. Yes, the mornings are for serious work, but as for his evenings, he’s chosen to take a leaf from Harry’s book and live a life of careless abandon.

And by God if it doesn’t work.

Because it does work, it does allow him to stop thinking about Harry, to convince himself that it’s only really lust he felt for the Boy Who Lived, and like all things temporary, the lust would evaporate like sweat on his body when he dances and indulges.

“When I said you needed a semi-Harry, I didn’t really think you’d go a step further and turn into one,” Ginny muses when Draco saunters over to where she’s perched on a barstool.

“Oh please, Ginevra, drama doesn’t become you.”

“Draco, body shots? Seriously? Has _Harry_ stamped all over it, except you’re the one who started it this time. Gryffindor, Malfoy, doesn’t become you.”

Astute, this one. “I didn’t know he’d had it patented. So sue me, Ginny.” He bends lower and says in a louder voice, “Wrist up.”

The crowd cheers as Ginny rolls her eyes but offers her wrist. It’s a familiar crowd at Resurrection tonight, the game a popular one and Ginny the most welcome woman, who’s so unbelievably sexy in her confidence that she makes gay men hard.

He makes a show of licking the patch of skin before shaking salt over it. He’s had at least three other men lick salt off him, each nearly leaving marks, but he has yet to finish his second — that second being Ginny when he finally laves a tongue over her wrist. Almost a sensual dance, prompting more cheers, before he smiles winningly at the crowd, downs his tequila shot, and sucks on a lime in a way that, judging by the groans of the men, is a little too suggestively.

“Knickers getting wet, darling?” the barman asks, winking and pouring Ginny a shot.

“I’m getting there,” Ginny gamely answers. “Okay, my turn. Who’s up for a little fun with a straight woman, my lovingly bent cohorts?”

Draco laughs at her audacity, loving the woman more and waits for anyone to step up when a familiar voice cuts through the crowd and effectively stifles his own response.

“How about you have fun with me?” And then Draco sees Harry dip his head and favours Ginny a short but thorough snog. For a brief moment, Draco wonders why he’s not attached to his current female of choice, but Harry’s already taking the glass of tequila from Ginny’s hand, nodding at the barman when he offers another glass, and downing the golden liquid. And when he sucks on a lime, Draco conveniently forgets about Lorelei.

“That’s hot, love, but a little more man-on-man action, please!” an anonymous voice calls from the crowd, drawing a loud chorus of agreements, and the fucking prick that he is, Harry offers a slow smile, grabs another from the bar, raises his glass to the crowd, and says in a voice that Draco is sure will go straight to every man’s cock because by God if it didn’t just shoot straight to his:

“Can I offer anyone my services?”

And just like in every man’s dream, fucking perfect Potter gets a lot of takers, eager and nearly begging because who in their right minds wouldn’t want the hottest guy in the room to suck on any of their body parts? Among wizards or not, Harry is a magnet, sex on legs, and dangerously charming in a way that rivals his accidental gravity back in Hogwarts.

Draco sweeps his gaze over the enthusiastic patrons and lands on Ginny, and he wonders why she’s suddenly looking worried because she never looks worried for Harry’s person when on a night out — that’s reserved for breakfast. But when his gaze alights on Harry, he understands, startlingly clearly: Golden Boy has set his eyes on him, grinning that shit-eating grin that shouldn’t have a place on his mouth because he’s already supposedly spoken for. Because he’s chosen to stick to one woman and shouldn’t even be playing the game with any of the men at Resurrection.

And then Harry’s stalking forward, towards him, green eyes so bright and standing out like beacons for fucking lost souls like Draco. He feels his mouth go dry.

“Hello, B.B. Fancy seeing you here.”

And the cliché, horrible as it is, is like a good slide of Firewhiskey, smooth and warm down his throat, caressing until he can feel it causing his trousers to tighten at the crotch, and, God, it must have been the voice. But before he can reply, Harry’s already tugging at the collar of his button-down and licking a stripe at the junction connecting neck and shoulder. “Salty enough,” he hears Harry whisper before all other sounds blend into one cacophonous racket in his ears as Harry closes his mouth over the patch of skin and nips. Licks and sucks. Moves until he’s kissing the soft skin near Draco’s ear, and Draco forgets to breathe.

Harry moves impossibly closer, trapping Draco between himself and the bar, and Draco can barely register his surroundings. So fucking intoxicating, and he can’t remember why he’s been avoiding Harry because who the fuck wants to avoid something as good as this? As good as being on the receiving end of Harry’s undivided attention?

When he opens his eyes — he doesn’t even remember closing them — Harry’s right there in front of him, so very close, and he feels something rough touch his chin and his lower lip before Harry flicks his tongue over them. The slightly tingly feeling on his lip tells him that it must’ve been the salt.

Then again, it must’ve been just Harry’s tongue leaving a small trail of magic.

Draco mourns the loss of the hard body pressed against him when Harry completely moves away and tosses back his tequila, sucks on a wedge of lime, and bows to the cheering crowd. In the periphery of his vision, he notices Ginny looking at him with an unreadable expression, before her eyes flick towards the crowd in front of Harry. He follows her line of sight and sees the familiar figure of Lorelei emerge, beckoning Harry and smiling when Harry steps towards her and takes her hand.

Draco feels the urge to wipe at his mouth with his sleeves to get the taste of Harry off. And if it would actually make a difference or send some kind of signal to the fucking brunette, he might have had.

“Come on, dance with me,” he hears Ginny whisper, feeling her lithe body conform to his side, blocking him from the people who have been recharged by the sensual display. Draco thinks someone later on will be unlucky enough to have salt spread over his cock and lucky enough to be enthusiastically swallowed by another. How Harry can inspire at the same time both benevolent acts bordering on saintly and hedonistic indulgences bordering on sinful, he’ll never know.

He spies Harry swaying with Lorelei from the corner of his eye, and he takes Ginny by the waist and swears he won’t look in that direction for the rest of the night.

* * *

 

Friday nights at Resurrection are the most out-of-control evenings in a week, almost as though everyone just has to celebrate the last day of work by being soused, stoned, and oversexed, and not entirely in that order. And so Draco stays even when Ginny has already begged off because he loves the adrenaline he gets from the place, never minding that somewhere in the throng of horny bodies gyrating on the dance floor are two people he really doesn’t care seeing together.

Well. He doesn’t need Ginny to stand between him and his nightmare. He’s old enough to stand on his own. Besides, there are a million fit queers around and someone’s bound to catch his attention.

The music selection is particularly good tonight, and he dances with abandon, feeling eyes on him and preening from the high of being watched and admired. It doesn’t take long before someone approaches him, and when he turns to the man, he sees a good-looking brunette who has eyes so dark that they nearly swallow him in their intensity. His smile is so dangerous and exciting that when he offers a packet of E, Draco eagerly accepts and thinks that the night has never gone so well.

* * *

 

Draco wakes up to a very familiar ceiling and in an even more familiar bed, and even when the early rays of the sun are burning his retinas, he forces himself to take stock of his surroundings because he just knows he shouldn’t be here. He moves to sit up and alarm, swift and sure, sweeps through him when he feels the sheets slide down his torso. His very naked torso that doesn’t have any business being naked in this place. At least, not anymore.

The last time he woke up in this same bed, he was left to the cold on his own, and he doesn’t think he’d like to fathom why he’s here on the same bed again, just as naked and feeling just as vulnerable. It’s too fucked up to contemplate without losing all his marbles.

He hears the tail-end of a conversation somewhere in the living room, and he’s freaked that he might find Harry in there with Lorelei. Surely, the Fates can’t be that cruel, can they?

Draco hurriedly grabs the robe he spies at the foot of the bed and creeps towards the steps leading up to the rest of the flat, wishing he’s being as stealthy as he feels because there’s no spying on the Boy Who Lived, not with all those war-honed reflexes and that bloody never-failing intuition.

When he glimpses the living room, he releases a breath he hasn’t known he was holding upon seeing Harry alone. He’s pacing the length of the sheepskin rug, his mobile phone being limply twirled in dextrous fingers, and a spliff cradled forgotten between two fingers of his other hand. It always amazes Draco how beautiful Harry is to look at: all wiry strength and lightly bronzed skin stretched over long bones and defined muscles that aren’t grossly bulky. And if he squints his eyes enough, he thinks he can even see tendrils of magic grazing his skin, teasing the hairs, and glittering like fairy dust around his person.

Or maybe that’s just him letting his inner poet come out, which doesn’t have business coming out when he’s pissed at Potter. Stupid Potter — where has that scrawny midget from their school days gone? That ugly duckling was easier to deal with.

Draco follows the line of Harry’s spine and he reaches the band of Harry’s jeans before he realizes that he’s looking at a barely dressed Harry Potter. He immediately averts his gaze northward, only to notice Harry’s hair tousled like fingers have been carding through it the entire night. Oh shit. They can’t have done what he thinks they’ve done, can they? It probably would’ve been very hot if he could remember but... _no. No._

He pauses to take mental stock of his own person, and he doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or not that he can’t feel the familiar sting in his arse.

He must’ve made some kind of noise then because Harry’s turning towards him, and of course, the first thing that Draco’s eyes focus on is the open fly of Harry’s jeans and the outline of something more sinful.

“You’re awake.”

Draco’s curious gaze snaps towards Harry’s face, and he hopes he doesn’t look guilty. “Yes,” he answers, sounding dumb in his own ears.

“Breakfast?”

Draco nearly replies affirmatively before he remembers that the only thing edible in Harry’s is his limitless supply of orange juice. Or the occasional box of pastries from Hermione...and why the hell are they having this insane conversation anyway?

“I think I still have an unopened box of those wheat flakes you like so much, which I don’t understand because they taste like cardboard,” Harry continues absently, padding towards the cupboards after having thrown his mobile on the couch and discarding his unfinished spliff in a nearby ashtray. For a moment, Draco fights the urge to say something about that because that’s a waste of perfectly good pot, and Draco’s really all for not wasting an excellent stash.

He keeps his mouth shut and watches Harry’s progress instead.

There’s something in the way that the new Harry moves that has always captivated Draco — agitated yet purposive when he can’t figure something out, predatory when he does figure it out, liquid sex when he’s on the pull, and sweepingly lazy when he's in his own home. The loping grace of someone who has finally come to terms with himself, comfortable in his own skin after years of seemingly unending puberty. Sometimes, he misses that awkward gait of the schoolboy Harry, but even then he could see a kind of measure in his steps, as though he was always aware of where he was and treading as though someone was out to get him all the time, which wasn’t really all that far from the truth, but quite irrelevant in making a point in Draco’s head.

“Harry,” he finally calls when the silence grates on his nerves.

“Mm?”

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to solve the mystery of the universe, I guess,” Harry answers glibly. “Come, sit down.”

“Harry,” Draco repeats a little warningly.

Harry stops in his tracks and faces Draco, tucking his hands in his back pockets and pushing his jeans dangerously lower with the motion. He cocks his head to the side, looking for all the world like he’s being prevented by Draco from going about his very important business of making breakfast. “What?”

Draco barely tamps his annoyance. “What are you doing?”

“Waiting for you to say your piece so I could start on breakfast,” he replies, and Draco has the mad urge to roll his eyes. It’s not like Harry eats breakfast. Gone are the days when Harry indulged in Hogwarts’ feast. These days, when Harry says breakfast, it generally means a glass of orange juice or a round of sex or two. And clearly, there will be no sex between them in the very near future.

“Harry—” Draco cuts himself off. “Never mind. I’m out of here.” There are so many unanswered questions, least of which is what he’s doing in Harry’s loft, but his head has started to ache, he’s beginning to feel the fatigue that has built up in the last few days, and he’s really not in the mood for Harry’s mind games.

Just when he returns to the bedroom to look for his clothes, he hears Harry approaching him, speaking in that matter-of-fact voice he hates.

“Despite everything, I’ve never thought you were stupid, Malfoy. Not until today.”

Draco whirls around quickly, his ego stinging, and he nearly overbalances, surprised that Harry has gotten so close. “What—”

“You’d think I’d gotten through your thick head. You’d think you’d learned to listen to me by now. Tell me, what were you doing last night?”

Nothing could’ve forced Draco to answer that because he doesn’t think he owes Harry any kind of explanation, except he can’t tell him not because he doesn’t want to, but because he can’t remember. And that’s very alarming.

“Can’t remember, can you?”

“Of course, I can!” A reflex.

Harry laughs, mocking, and Draco involuntarily takes a step back. “Oh really?” Draco can only glare. “Here’s what happened, _Draco_ : you took drugs from someone you didn’t know. You willingly ingested substance from someone who isn’t me when I’ve specifically told you never to trust anybody else but _me_ when it comes to that!”

Harry’s gotten so close and Draco nearly swoons at the intent leeching off him. There were times when he and Harry would spend the day alternating between smoking spliffs and fucking like bunnies until his arse was so sore and Harry was so sure that his cock was going to chafe if they didn’t stop; and Draco can’t help remembering, not when he can smell the intoxicating scent of ganja that lingers enticingly on Harry’s skin.

“What the fuck do you care? It’s my life!” Draco answers defensively in an effort to stave off more memories. He can’t afford to lose his composure, not now, not when it’s all he can do not to reach out and touch Harry.

And just like that, he stops Harry effectively.

Harry’s face suddenly loses its angry lines, becomes more offensive in its indifference. He smiles then, equally gorgeous and sickening, stepping backwards before shrugging. “You’re absolutely right. You’re life.” He turns to go back to the kitchen. “But stay, though, and have breakfast. After all, it must be tiring trying to be the subject of an eventual gang bang.”

“What?”

“Oh don’t worry. You did brilliantly. Four, five men?”

Draco rushes towards Harry, disbelieving and even more offended at how he decided to break the news to Draco.

“I was very impressed, given how high you were last night,” Harry continues lightly even when Draco grabs him roughly by the arm to spin him around.

“What are you talking about?” he barely manages to keep the shaking out his voice. It’s all so very surreal, what Harry’s telling him, but the thing about Harry is that when he gets like this, when he’s deliberately hurting someone just to get his point across, he never lies. He finds a way to make the truth just absolutely hurt.

Harry leans forward and mouths at Draco’s jaw, his hands making short work of the ties of the robe. Then Draco’s feeling the burn of Harry’s hand on his skin and fuck if that doesn’t make him lose his train of thought. When a finger traces the crevice of his arse, he shudders and feels himself getting harder, and Harry’s still placing open-mouthed kisses along his neck.

“Shame that the party was broken up before the good things started. But you wound me, Malfoy.”

Harry’s jeans are abrading his cock, but the rough denim only serves to excite Draco more. He can’t breathe, can’t think, not when he can feel an answering hardness against his hip, not when Harry’s fingers are pressing so intimately against his arsehole.

“Harry...” he means to stop Harry, but the name rolls off his tongue in a breathy moan that should mortify him if he weren’t feeling so hot, so consumed by what he hasn’t had in a long time. He should be ashamed of himself, but Harry has just situated a thigh between his legs and all the blood comes rushing down his groin, leaving him lightheaded and gripping Harry’s arms tightly to keep him steady on his feet.

“You wound me, Malfoy.” And he can’t understand why Harry’s still talking — _how_ Harry can still talk when Draco’s all but humping his thigh. “I could’ve done it myself, you know. Could’ve given you what you wanted. A rough fuck? You needn’t spread your legs for five other blokes all at the same time.”

And just like that, Harry stops him effectively.

 _Like a whore_ , is what’s left unsaid.

Even when Harry’s still doing that delicious thing with his fingers, even when Draco’s still pressed flush against a warm solid chest, even when Harry’s day-old stubble is scraping his cheek in that awfully familiar way, Draco feels like he’s been doused with cold water, unforgiving in its pursuit of chasing away every good feeling in his bones.

He stumbles away from Harry, looking aghast, horrified. Unbelievably offended at the tone, and he finds his hand itching to hit Harry. To hurt him physically because he’s tried every word before and nothing seems to break the fucking Boy Who Lived anymore. Sticks and stones and all that, he told Draco once.

“Fuck you, Potter.” _Fuck you_ because if anything, it’s Harry who’s the whore. It’s Harry who sleeps around. It’s Harry who doesn’t have the right to censure him, to judge him because of a single mistake that doesn’t even compare to his mistakes back when they were kids, the ones Harry absolved him of.

But Harry’s vindictive. So fucking vindictive beneath his Gryffindor cloak. Always a curse for a curse, a _Sectumsempra_ for a _Crucio_. And the sad thing is that he’s always had good aim, “Oh, sweetheart, we both know it’s me who does the fucking.”

This time, Draco hits him, a resounding slap across the face that reverberates in the room, that has Harry’s head canting to the side with the force of it. And it should feel satisfying, it should feel good to get back at Harry fucking Potter, but Harry’s just standing there, unresponsive even when Draco’s handprint blooms red and angry on his cheek.

He takes a deep breath to try to calm down, then he ties his robe, forgetting to ask for his clothes, and hurries towards the metal doors, eager to get away, to get the hell away from Harry.

To get away before Harry sees how he’s managed the impossible — how he’s managed to fucking break Draco’s heart.

And that’s when he realizes exactly what the problem was. The problem with fraternizing with Harry Potter is that he has this kind of magic that fucks people over: one minute you’re only _liking_ Harry, then feeling something unaccountably _more_ stupid for him the next. It starts out as a titchy, nagging feeling, and then it grows and grows and grows until it’s too big to handle.

And it’s so true for him because he has honestly, completely, irrevocably fallen in love with the fucking bastard. Fallen in love long before he could identify the emotion. So, truly, he’s fucked, inside and out, because no one could make him hurt this much with so little words if he weren’t so in love with that person.

And now that he thinks about it, he’s accepted their arrangement so easily because he thought it’d be different. That because he feels something, he just needs the physical relationship to nudge Harry into the path Draco wishes he’d take. That by getting that kind of close to Harry, the Boy Who Lived would just so miraculously fall in love with Draco, too.

Because he was different. He was different from the countless tricks and twinks that shared Harry’s bed. They weren’t strangers the first time they slept together, Harry and he. They were always reactive to one another. They had something and he was different.

He thought he was different. Believed it even.

_You needn’t whore yourself out..._

But, apparently, he isn’t. He’s just one of the countless faces who _spread_ their fucking legs for Harry. And the only difference was that he was the one who got repeatedly fucked. And even that, it turns out, wasn’t enough to set him completely apart.

Before he slams the doors and Disapparates, he turns back and delivers a cheap parting shot, desperate to hurt Harry, to get past the barrier and hit Harry where it fucking hurts, “How proud your mother would be to see you now, Potter.”

He sees Harry’s shoulder heave in reaction and knows he’s done it.

He’s exacted his pound of flesh, and he’s never felt worse.

* * *

 

The problem with living in a city and constantly being surrounded by other people who live in the same city is that he doesn’t get any peace and quiet when he actually needs to be alone. That vibe that he first noticed upon seeing a Muggle show over at Harry’s place once seems to be more than a TV creation and is actually a viable undercurrent that lights up city life. It’s exciting despite nearly being completely Muggle, but in times when Draco wants be left the fuck alone, the vibe can be such a curse. Because right now, Ginny’s in his flat, rummaging through his wardrobe, and nagging at him to get his arse going because _seriously, doll face, you need to get out and I’m fucking inviting you to Resurrection myself._

If that isn’t commitment, then Draco doesn’t know what is. Ginny is a willing tag-along in Draco’s trips to notorious gay clubs, but was never one to initiate an invite herself until now. And Draco, far be it from him to be an ungrateful sod to the force that is Ginny, finds himself agreeing, on the condition that they go somewhere else. Resurrection, as it turns out, isn’t a place high on his list of favourite places when it almost always houses Harry Potter and, nowadays, Lore-fucking-lie. And yes, he’s bloody bitter about it all. Screw people who say that he shouldn’t let someone who’s that much of an arsehole affect him because what do they know anyway? He doesn’t want to see Harry and that is that.

And it doesn’t take too long before Draco finds that he needn’t put too much effort in avoiding Harry because those two times he allowed himself to step foot into Resurrection, Harry hadn’t been there, nor had Lorelei. Even in the few times Ginny has managed to drag him to breakfast with Granger and Weasley, Harry and Lorelei have been absent. But really, why should that surprise him? The fucking Gryffindor ups and leaves whenever he pleases, so why should this time be any different?

It shouldn’t be. And it fucking isn’t, he tells himself.

* * *

 

On the day that he decides to get everything Harry-related out of his life, he goes to Harry’s loft, intent on retrieving even the little things he’s left in that place. He’s failed to leave an impression on the former Gryffindor, so he refuses to leave anything of his in any place of Harry’s. Childish, he knows, but he needs something to completely break ties without throwing away the most important connection he has with Harry: Ginny.

Lovely Ginevra Weasley who took his offer of friendship and has showed him since what friends are really made of. If he weren’t so bent, he’d really pursue Ginny the soonest she’s in the market. And that’s saying a lot about how long he’s come from his childhood bigotry. He’s no longer the stupid Draco Malfoy who mouthed off words straight from his father’s bible. He’s changed, he likes to think, and for that, he knows for sure that he deserves more than what Harry is giving him. He doesn’t need leftover affections, especially from a self-destructive son of a bitch named Harry Potter.

As he stands in front of the steel doors of Harry’s loft, he hates himself for feeling nostalgic, remembering every fucking detail of his visits because at first they were something extremely novel to him and then because he let himself be fucked in more ways than one afterwards. Shit, the memories taste bitter on his tongue, and he really shouldn’t be reminiscing. He’s always been a sentimental fool, too governed by his emotions to be an effectual Death Eater then, and he knows that any good memory he has of Harry will be nurtured until he can fool himself once more into believing that the other wizard would fall in love with him just because he himself is already in love. A vicious cycle that has run more than enough times.

Stupid. Fucking stupid and he can’t afford the high price tag of recollection anymore.

Fishing the familiar weight of the key from his pockets, he neglects to think why he hasn’t returned it or why Harry hasn’t asked for it to be returned. Not that he needs the key, it seems, because the doors are actually open, the light from the inside spilling from the crack to form a narrow triangle on the floor. He moves forward and his hands are already pulling the doors apart before he realizes that Lorelei could’ve been inside and he might be witness to something that he has no wish to ever see.

The voice that washes over him, thankfully, isn’t Lorelei’s, but he doesn’t think it’s any better when he spies inside and sees Ginny carding her fingers through unruly black hair while Harry, sitting on the edge of the pristine sofa Draco’d been bent over more times than he can count, is clinging to her like his life depends on it.

They don’t seem to have noticed him while he stands there, transfixed, and not just a little bit confused by the scene.

“Ginny, I want... It’s— _fuck._ It’s always been you, always been you...” he hears Harry say. “I love you. I love you, Gin. Always. You and I, Gin. You and I.”

Draco doesn’t understand and gets even more confused when Harry tugs and Ginny falls easily onto him, straddling him and raining kisses on his face — his forehead, his eyes, nose, the corner of his mouth, his lips. And again. And again until Harry curls a possessive hand around her nape and kisses her full on the mouth and pulling her impossibly closer and closer still and Draco can’t breathe. He’s choking on nothing and he feels lightheaded, as though he’s in a dream so surreal that he’s sure he’s dreaming. Only, he’s not.  He’s awake. Fucking awake but the nightmare continuous to play before his fucking open eyes.

Ginny. His beautiful Ginny. His lovely Ginevra Weasley who he has entrusted with his friendship. His life-saver who has just gone behind his back and the man who he’s so desperately in love with are so successfully rending his already broken heart.

Draco feels like falling, but he’s still rooted to the spot until a groan from Harry goads his feet into moving, into backing away, into turning his back and walking away. _Run away._

As he exits the building, he’s horrified to feel his cheeks wet and the sob that he lets out is a bitter laugh at the thought that he and Lorelei are probably not so different after all — they’ve both been blindsided by supposedly honourable Gryffindors.

* * *

 

It’s been seven days since that afternoon at Harry’s apartment, and not once has he seen Ginny, when before they only went so long without seeing each other when one of them was out of the country. He’s rebuffed every invitation and sent back every owl from her, concentrating instead on his work, just like those days after Harry threw in his face the whorish label he hadn’t the need to vocalize for Draco to understand.

Stupid fucking Gryffindors; he really shouldn’t have gone and made himself comfortable in their presence. Hell, he shouldn’t have gone and slept with the best personification of Gryffindor itself. But he did, and now look where that has left him.

He sighs and proceeds to clean up his desk. It won’t do to be late to his first official date since his breakup with Richard and the mess with Harry. He doesn’t care if others think he should heal before he ventures into a new relationship because what do they fucking know anyway? He’s not a woman and there’s no healing what shouldn’t have been broken in the first place.

The restaurant is a classy one, far different from the establishments he and Harry spent most of their time in, and he takes this as a good thing. It’s like being back to who he was before, when he dined and wined with wizards the likes of Richard, minus, possibly, the cheating aspect. For a moment, he thinks at least Harry didn’t cheat on him, but how could someone cheat on him anyway when, to begin with, they weren’t exclusive? Richard, Harry, they’re both alike — they both broke his heart and he’s done with them.

The waiter asks for his reservation and he’s shown to a table after he gives his date’s name. He smiles at the waiter as he leaves them be, and he takes in the man in front of him who has just gotten up.

“Hello, Draco.”

“Hi, Cal,” Draco smiles a genuine smile that he hasn’t smiled in quite a while. Cal is very good-looking with a gaze so intense that Draco feels it sizzling on his skin.

Cal Harper is a wizard whose bloodline goes back to the Great Depression — an American Wizarding family who made a killing out of a barely legal manipulation of the Muggle economy. Notorious in every transaction that deals with money, according to genealogy books, and a system that nearly resembles the Muggle mafia if only for their tight familial operations. But it’s no secret in their circles that Cal has long since dropped out of the New York Harpers, only keeping the name for convenience’s sake.

Cal moved to Europe when he was seventeen and ambitious, carefully built his empire in real estate through proper connections and a trust fund he was smart enough to keep despite his falling out with his family, stayed out of Britain during the war, and relocated his business back to England just after the initial months of Harry’s victory. A very fortuitous move as property problems were at an all time high and Cal had been skilled enough to turn it to his advantage. And because money speaks, he’s earned the respect of his family and seems to be getting no flack from breaking off with them.

“Did you have any trouble finding the place?”

Despite spending his formative years in the land of the free, Cal’s smooth baritone is anything but American. Not quite English either, but completely acceptable in the _alta sociedad_ of the British Wizarding folk. Modulated. Rich. Like fucking sex, and isn’t that just what the healer ordered.

“No, no trouble at all.”

Cal was Draco’s estate agent when he sold a few Malfoy properties across the country to fund the excessive war reparations exacted from them, and while he hadn’t been interested in Cal back then — and neither was Cal interested in the lost child that was Draco at eighteen — Draco couldn’t quite say the same thing when they met again at a company event. Fortunately enough, Cal had seemed to be interested as well.

“More champagne, gentlemen?”

Draco looks up at their server in assent, but finds that Cal’s attention hasn’t wavered at all.

“Sir?” the waiter prompts Cal.

Cal tips his head to the side, eyes moving downwards when Draco licks his lower lip, not once looking at the waiter. “I’m good.”

They say men think about sex every twenty-eight seconds. Of course, that’s straight men. With gay men, it’s every nine, but as Draco sits down and gets pinned by Cal’s intense, dark gaze, he thinks it’s every bloody second and it’s all he can do to keep from spontaneously coming just by receiving such attention. Who needs a fucking Harry when he can have a Cal who’s tall, dark, handsome, and has been the youngest wizard to make his first million outside the family?

Cal Harper is just the right kind of distraction he needs and he’s right up Draco’s alley.

* * *

 

Draco wakes up cocooned in warmth, both by the downy quilt covering him and the body spooned behind him, and for a moment, he sleepily wonders if it’s a good thing or not. He usually doesn’t fall into bed with anyone on a first date — he refuses to think about Harry at all because dating hadn’t even been a concept in that...whatever that was — but last night with Cal was something else all together.

The American-borne realtor is gorgeous and charismatic as all hell that he could probably sell Draco soap at the price of gold and he wouldn’t bat an eyelash. He was attentive, took only decent sips of champagne, and charmed Draco with his wit and easy humour. It was a date that Draco hadn’t had in a long time, and the best part was that he felt like himself again.

When Draco moves to face the sleeping man behind him, he realizes that while his torso is so obviously naked, his nether regions are actually quite decent. But just to be sure, he lifts the blanket to check and there staring at his face are his grey boxer briefs, tidy and snug around his hips.

He feels more than hears the laughter reverberating in the supposedly sleeping man’s chest, and he’s mortified to actually feel the heat creeping up his cheeks. He’s twenty-seven for heaven’s sake, and if all those deviant things he did with Harry didn’t cause him to blush, there’s no reason to redden like a fucking virgin over something so mundane like checking out his own underwear.

“Nothing happened, Draco,” Cal rasps, voice sleep-scratchy and inexplicably sexy for someone who just woke up.

When Cal shifts, Draco feels a prominent erection against his hip and wonders why he shouldn’t just give in. Why should Harry be the only one to be allowed to break the rules? He fell in bed with Harry despite their non-relationship, but Cal promises to be of a different calibre, so why shouldn’t he indulge? Besides, the man went to the trouble of setting up the best date he’s had in years.

Deciding to keep Harry from being an exemption in his life, Draco fully turns towards the other man and cants his hips forward, feeling the glorious erection before him slide against his own burgeoning one. “Then let’s make things happen, why don’t we?” He gives a shallow thrust, loving the groan that slips out of Cal’s mouth — the same mouth he’s currently whispering against. “I’d like a good seeing-to in the morning, and I’m of the impression that Cal Harper can make me come three ways from Sunday and still make me ache for more.”

Cal nips at Draco’s lower lip. “You have a dirty mouth on you, Draco.”

Draco forces himself to forget a certain dirty mouth that has mapped his entire body and instead gives Cal a kiss so raw, it borders on sin. “Stop talking. Start sucking,” he says because it can’t get any better than Cal, can it?

**xxx**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: _Queer as Folk_ is based on characters and situations that belong to J.K. Rowling; publishers that include, but may not be limited to, Bloomsbury Publishing, Scholastic Publishing, and Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros. The title is borrowed from the show of the same name, the North American version of which was developed by Ron Cowen and Daniel Lipman from the original English series, of the same title, created by Russel T. Davies. No money is being made, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
> 
> Some details are borrowed, either consciously or unconsciously, from the North American version of Queer as Folk, and the character of Harry Potter, for the purpose of this story, is loosely based on the character of Brian Kinney.
> 
> Considerations: Similarities to other stories/events/passages are purely coincidental unless otherwise cited. References to real company/ies, historical figure/s, and other personality/ies, dead or alive, are purely fictional. Beliefs and points of view found in the story do not necessarily reflect those of the author’s.


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